The Keys of Khagemar
by Reilly.216
Summary: A Khajiit monster-slayer is hired to retrieve ancient artefacts by a mysterious client in a tavern. He is promised more Septims than he can imagine, and all he needs to do to receive his pay? Assemble a team of vampire-hunters and save Tamriel from its impending doom at the hands of an ancient evil.
1. Prologue

The Keys of Khagemar

Prologue

The working day in Whiterun had ended. Labourers had gone home or to the nearest tavern to spend their hard-earned gold. City Guards had exchanged shifts, the night owls beginning their watch over the city for thieves or back-alley skooma deals. It was the third month of the year, First Seed, meaning the snows of the new year were waning and only a brisk chill remained to let people know that the land of Skyrim remained a cold and bitter place.

In the Bannered Mare, it was a night like any other, however. Patrons drank and laughed as they exchanged pleasantries and chatter about their days work. Veterans of the war sat by the fire-pit, telling stories of the battles they had seen and the friends they had lost.

Drinking to someone's memory was a common sight nowadays, the Stormcloak Rebellion had seen more bloodshed than Skyrim had known for the past decade, but the Imperials presence remained strong in the country despite the unrest the Nords had caused. Even one of the esteemed Companions had descended from the nearby hall of Jorrvaskr, Farkas. He'd come to play drinking games and get to know the townspeople - especially the women.

But in a shadowy corner of the tavern, an ageing Nord man approached a figure sitting alone at a table, wrapped in a hooded cloak that shrouded his face from view. The candlelight flickered around him, the shadows almost bending to keep him obscured from the scrutiny of the rest of the patrons.

The hooded figure tended to his bow while listening to the noise of the tavern absent-mindedly. He waxed the bowstring carefully, rubbing the material up the length of the string carefully with his fingers. The figure caressed the weapon as gently as another man might touch their lover. Each movement was slow, steady and coordinated. The only reason the figure ever paused the maintenance of his weapon was to take a swig of ale from his tankard.

The Nord cleared his throat to gain the figure's attention once he was close enough. The figure raised his head ever so slightly, a pair of piercing yellow eyes staring at the Nord who had interrupted his cleaning ritual.

The eyes of a Khajiit.

"Um, hello." The Nord spoke, his voice shaky and nervous. "My name is Ragvir. I'm here to offer you a contract."

"Three hundred Septims. That is this one's starting price." The figure in the cloak spoke with a voice like gravel; he didn't bother to even glance at Ragvir. He knew he'd crumble, the cloaked figure had seen it all before. The nervous approach, the pleasantries, the bargaining and then the request. The Khajiit would rather the Nord just cut to the chase and be done with it.

"I don't... I can't..." Ragvir sputtered, a peasant, judging from his bedraggled clothes and dirty face. "I work at the Honningbrew Meadery, that's more than I make in three months!"

"That sounds like your problem, Ragvir." The figure replied with a cocky smirk. His face obscured by his hood, only his lips on show. The Khajiit's focus never wavered from his tankard for more than a few moments. "Did you know that the Argonians on the Windhelm docks do not make a single Septim for their back-breaking work?"

"I, er, I don't..." Ragvir stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to find the words, but stumbled at the first syllable.

"As a matter of fact," he took a long swig from his tankard, turning on his stool to regard the man who had offered him this contract, "This one doubts you've ever even been to Windhelm, no?"

Ragvir was silent.

"Well?" The Khajiit asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, er, n-no. I've never been beyond Riverwood. I went to Helgen once with my Da, when I was a boy-"

"This one does not care, Ragvir." The mercenary cut him off. "This one doesn't care about you, or your 'Da', or your job at the Meadery. All Khajiit cares about are the three-hundred Septims he is going to make off your contract."

"But, sir, I've already told you, it's-"

"It's too much." The mercenary chuckled. "Honestly, it's nothing this one has not heard a hundred times before. Would you like to know _why_ Khajiit's price is so steep, Ragvir?"

"Uh, o-okay?" The Nord replied, his voice fluttering with nerves.

"It is because Khajiit _will_ get the job done. No matter what it is you ask of him. If you would like someone to clear out a bandit camp, hunt giants or track down the man who stole your lover – this one is the one you come to." The figure shrugged. "For this one, there is no such thing as a job 'too big' or a contract 'too small'. And the best part is that this one _doesn't ask questions_."

"But what if-" Ragvir started.

"Listen closely, Ragvir, if you would like Khajiit to get something done, you are going to have to show him some gold soon, if you cannot – then this conversation is over. You could ask the Companions for their help. Mind you, they will probably say no, especially if there is no honour or glory in it for them. And if they decline, politely ask the Jarl to send some city guards to do it. Although this one _guarantees_ they will not however."

"Why not?"

"If it is not for the glory of the Hold, or if they do not personally get anything out of it, they will send you home disappointed." Ragvir sighed. The hooded Khajiit finished his drink and looked the Nord up and down.

The man was desperate, at the end of his patience and was practically eating out of the Khajiit's palm.

"If you still want to this one to see to your contract, _and_ you are going to pay me - in full - take a seat, and we shall talk business." He finished, fully expecting the man to turn and walk away.

The Nord must have been desperate though, because Ragvir sat down almost immediately, nodding his head as he did so. "Okay, sell-sword. Let's talk."

The Khajiit nodded and grinned a feline smile, his fangs gleaming in the candlelight. He gave the Nord a hand to shake, a gesture acknowledging that they were now working together, even if the Khajiit was going to do all the heavy-lifting.

"This one is happy to do business with you, Ragvir." He smiled, yellow eyes fixed on the Nord's face.

 **VIIIIIV**

 _Three days later…_

 **VIIIIIV**

The morning dew on the grassy plains of the meadows surrounding the city of Whiterun was steadily being burnt off by the warm morning light. The Khajiit mercenary walked calmly over the wet cobblestone road leading to the city regarded to be one of Skyrim's most esteemed cities. The archer strode past the city's Western Watchtower. It had been almost a year since the Dragonborn had battled a dragon here and discovered the power in their blood, but repairs still hadn't been made to the tower. While the watchtower itself remained intact, massive chunks of the mortar had fallen as rubble, strewn across the grass around it and even some parts of the road. The Khajiit wondered about what might have happened to the Dragonborn since then. After the Dovahkiin had ridden on the back of Odahviing to face the World-Eater Alduin, she had disappeared. The world had been saved from the Dragon Crisis, although some of the overgrown reptiles did occasionally appear to cause trouble, but the hero who saved them never returned from her journey.

The people of Skyrim were left to wonder whether the Dragonborn had given her life to defeat Alduin, or if she had retreated into obscurity after saving the world from damnation. The Khajiit believed that the hero had seen such responsibility being put on her shoulders during the Dragon Crisis, becoming the people's last hope for survival, that he wouldn't blame her if she wanted to retreat from the public eye for a few months, enjoy some anonymity for once.

As he wandered past the watchtower, he looked over to one of the several Hold guards stationed around it. A single guard glared at him with distrust and contempt. The Khajiit simply averted his gaze. He'd learned the hard way that staring at a Nord too long, especially one you weren't acquainted with, typically ended up in a brawl. It didn't bother him though; his kind had always been ridiculed as the runts of society, mocked and stereotyped in every province in Tamriel as thieves, skooma addicts and criminals.

The mercenary had always done his best to ignore the knives their judgmental eyes shot at him, but since the overwhelming majority of his kind justified their criticisms and stereotypes, he doubted their opinions of him on a surface level weren't going to change any time soon.

As it turned out, the job Ragvir had assigned him was far simpler than even the Khajiit had expected. The Nord had only wanted the mercenary to retrieve a family heirloom from a bandit camp, his mother's wedding ring or something of the sort. Apparently, the Nord was going to propose to his childhood sweetheart, as it would be their anniversary within in the next few days and he wanted to make it special. The mercenary wondered whether Ragvir would've tried to find someone cheaper than him if he'd had a bit more time to find the ring.

The Khajiit shrugged. It was none of his business. All he cared about was the coin he'd receive from this job, and the next one, and the one after that. It wasn't in his nature to pry or stay to see whether his actions would enrich the lives of those he took contracts from.

His work was shunned by many, but it was a necessary one. Many of the contracts he undertook were too dangerous or too risky for other folk to handle. He was a highly-trained killer, his heightened feline senses gave him an edge in combat that he needed. As an archer, he was a deadly adversary, nocking and loosing arrows on unsuspecting targets from afar before any of them had a chance to react.

He'd actually received quite an infamous reputation as one of the greatest archers that Tamriel had ever produced. Since childhood, in his home in Elswyr, the Khajiit had been trained in the art of the Hunt, particularly of the Bow and Sword. But he had a knack for archery. He couldn't explain it, but ever since picking up his first long bow, it had felt like second nature to the Khajiit. It was only in his adolescence, when he had seen nineteen winters, that he was allowed into the wider world to make his own way in life, and set off on the Path.

As a result of the infamy, he was widely sought after by many for his abilities. From highborn Jarls to lowly peasants like Ragvir, he received anything from simple fetch quests to monster contracts. And this was where he'd excelled. In Tamriel, no matter where folk were, there always seemed to be a monster to slay or a local menace to be put down. From Highrock to Cyrodiil, the Black Marsh to Hammerfell, the Khajiit had travelled far and wide. His exploits had earned him a list of trophies over the years.

Frost Trolls, Werewolves, Sabre Cats and Giant Spiders. He was no stranger to hunting the supernatural prey; Vampires, Draugr, Atronachs and Dremora. He'd yet to face a challenge that truly tested him.

In doing so, the Khajiit had earned a few monikers and titles, too many to count. The Bow of Black Lash, the Swift Shadow and the Honour-Bound came to mind. But one had stuck, and it was a name that he quite liked. He had kept it, in fact.

The Lightning Arrow.

The Khajiit smiled, thinking back how he earned such names, but shook off the thoughts quickly as he drew closer to the city. The retrieval of the ring had actually been deceptively simple. It had caught the eye of one of the bandits after the burglar who had stolen it from Ragvir had tried fencing it with some other stolen items. Of course, since Bandits weren't known for their intelligence, instead of haggling for a better price, the bandit had simply caved in the thief's skull with a swing of his mace, taking the ring as a trophy.

The Khajiit had found the new owner of the ring attending the Cragslane Cavern Dog Fighting Pits a few miles north of Riften. All the mercenary had needed to do was make a bet for the ring. The bandit obliged, asking for the Khajiit's bow if the mercenary lost. The archer simply smiled politely and agreed.

Of course, halfway through the dog fight, the Khajiit took out his dagger and sliced off the other man's fingers.

He'd screamed so loud the mercenary wondered if the Jarl of Solitude had heard his cries. After that, he only remembered running. A lot of it, as fast as his legs would allow, for as long as he could manage. As good as he was at fighting; the Khajiit had known he'd never be able to fend off so many attackers in such a confined space.

The trek back to Whiterun had taken time, but the thought of his payment kept the mercenary going. That, and the reward of a mug of ale and a hot meal when he bunked for the night at the Bannered Mare. Hulda, unlike other Nords, always greeted the Khajiit with a warm expression. On his travels, he'd been to Whiterun more than any other city. It was certainly his favourite, even if the settlement wasn't as infamous as Markarth, the city carved into a mountain. And it certainly wasn't as grand as the shipping ports of Solitude.

Maybe one day he'd own property here. Nothing too extravagant, just a small place to call his own. The Khajiit smiled warmly at the thought. But he shook away the daydream as he neared the city gates. The guards eyed him up and down before nodding, unlocking the large entrance into their settlement. The Khajiit sighed in relief; it was always a moment to savour when he was sheltered by the stone walls of a city. It made him feel just that little bit safer.

 **VIIIIIV**

"Oh, my favourite customer. Back so soon?" Hulda grinned as the Khajiit entered the Bannered Mare, closing the door carefully behind him. He smiled as he removed his cowl, rubbing a hand through his small mane atop his head to get rid of the discomfort he felt after taking it off.

"Ah, you've probably had a long journey. So, what'll it be? We got some Black-Briar stuff that just came in yesterday, want to try some?" Hulda asked, welcoming as ever.

"This one will have his usual. And a room upstairs." The Khajiit responded as he blew out a breath, taking a seat at the wooden counter. As Hulda prepared a tankard of Honningbrew, the Khajiit looked around the tavern.

Ragvir was nowhere to be seen, but that was to be expected. The Khajiit knew that it would be a few hours before he arrived. Apparently, his job at the Meadery was an early start, and at this time in the morning he would be at his job. The mercenary was slightly irked by it, but wasn't about to complain about the opportunity it gave him to have a drink and rent a room to catch up on some sleep.

Hulda handed over his beverage, then leaned over the counter as she tried to make idle conversation with him. The archer passed over fifteen Septims to the woman, who took ten and returned five.

"I haven't seen you in a few days." She started. "What have you been doing?"

"Business." He quickly replied, putting his change into his money pouch. He didn't like to divulge the nature of his work. When people learned that he earned his coin by killing men and monsters in cold blood, they changed their opinion of him to something a little colder.

While it certainly made him a legend among those who knew him, his moniker as the Lightning Arrow seemed sour to some, due it being earned through slaughter and profiting off others misery. They only saw the killer, the monster hunter, coated in the blood of those he had cut down to earn his gold.

In other words - it was easier to lie.

"Oh? What kind of _'business'_?" She pressed, a playful smirk on her face.

"Just..." He trailed off, wondering what to tell her, "... _business_."

Hulda hummed her disapproval of his stoic answer, but she just shrugged and walked away to tend to her duties. "Damn adventurers, you're all the same..."

The Khajiit sighed and sat quietly, alone at the bar, a hand on the tankard of Honningbrew Mead in front of him. He stared at the bubbles frothing at the top of the liquid, his face a mask of concentration. He was in no mood to drink so early in the morning, but he was glad for the rest. He turned his other hand and opened his fist, looking at Ragvir's ring in his palm. It would surely be worth a pretty penny, if he could find the right fence, if only he wasn't bound to give it back to the Nord who had hired him.

The mercenary shrugged off the thought, and instead finished his drink, retreating upstairs to lie down – at least for a few hours.

 **VIIIIIV**

 _ **Later that evening…**_

 **VIIIIIV**

"You found it!" Ragvir beamed, sitting across from the Khajiit, who presented the ring to the Nord. "Thank you, you don't know what this means."

"Actually, I do." The mercenary responded, closing his palm as the Nord reached for the bauble. Ragvir shot him an odd, disgruntled look, but the Khajiit tutted. "It is time for you to pay what you owe, no?"

Ragvir sighed, nodding, though his expression turning slightly bitter. "Yes, of course. Don't worry; I hadn't forgotten your gold."

The Nord produced a knapsack from beneath the table. The Khajiit tensed up as Ragvir placed his hand inside, placing a wary hand on his dagger's hilt. He could pull out anything from the bag – a shiv, for example. Not something the mercenary hadn't prepared for.

The Khajiit had known some of his exchanges to go in a way he hadn't expected, and he'd been ambushed in taverns more times than he cared to admit. Not a lot of honest men left in this world.

But Ragvir _was_ an honest man, the Khajiit could tell. Skyrim needed more like him.

"Here." Ragvir said, producing a heavy pouch. The Khajiit peeked inside, the tell-tale gleam of gold twinkled inside. But the weight was heavier than it should have been, this wasn't the amount they'd agreed upon.

"This one thought we had settled on three hundred Septims?" He asked.

Ragvir shrugged and smiled. "You deserve a little more. There's three-hundred and forty pieces in there."

The Khajiit smirked. This one certainly was a good man. Too good for a place like this. His wife would be a happy woman, the Khajiit could tell.

"It's from our wedding dowry. If not for you, I wouldn't be able to make Lisene my wife. Consider it a bonus." Ragvir explained.

"This one appreciates your generosity, Ragvir." The Khajiit replied, nodding his thanks. "But Khajiit must go; I have other contracts to pursue. This one wishes you a long and happy marriage."

"I understand. Thank you again, sir." Ragvir hummed in thought.

The mercenary looked from the Nord to his drink, lifting the tankard to his lips. The Khajiit finished his drink and stood, pulling the hood on his cloak over his head. It would be a long journey to Falkreath. Rumour had it that a Giant had been bothering hunters in the region and the Jarl needed someone to handle the issue.

The Khajiit made his way to the door, making sure his bow and quiver were attached tightly to his back. His weapon was due for a new bowstring soon. The mercenary was internally deciding whether or not he could make the trip on foot in a day when he heard Ragvir approach him from behind.

"Wait." He asked. "What if I need your help again? The Meadery's had a skeever problem before. What happens if they come back?"

"Send a courier." The Khajiit replied. "They have a way of finding people like me."

"But who should I ask them to look for?" Ragvir responded. "I don't know your name."

"Hush." The mercenary replied. "That is what people have come to know this one by."

" _Hush_?" Ragvir lifted an eyebrow. "Why that name?"

The Khajiit rolled his shoulders, tapping the pommel of his dagger with the tip of a claw. "Pray you never need to find out, Ragvir. There is a reason this one does not have many enemies."

"What do you mean?" The Nord probed.

Ragvir was a good man, but his questions seemed to have no end. It vexed Hush to no end. Hush's voice dropped to a whisper.

"It is because they are all _dead_ ,Ragvir. When Hush kills, he doesn't make a sound as he creeps up to a target, not even the slightest noise before Khajiit slits their throat." Hush leaned closer to Ragvir, who remained completely still, too scared to move. "There is only the quiet before their death, only the hush of their approaching doom."

Ragvir nodded, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat. "Y-yes, sir. I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry."

"I know." Hush replied, his eyes looking around the tavern. No one had heard their little exchange. "Goodbye, Ragvir. Enjoy your wedding."

With that, the Khajiit turned and left the Bannered Mare into the chilly air of the night. A moment went by after the door had closed and Ragvir exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding.


	2. Chapter I - Hush, the Lightning Arrow

The Keys of Khagemar

Chapter I – Hush, the Lightning Arrow

"Oh great moon gods, Jode and Jone, twins of fate and luck - let your winds be gentle and your skies be heavy, let there be a blanket of leaves to track the Antlered One as did my forefathers, and grant that this one finds him with antlers like a tree, branches wide and mighty. Grant that my hands be steady, my aim be true, and the flight of my arrow swift." The Khajiit whispered to himself, kneeling on the grassy earth of the Falkreath forest.

It was a prayer, one that marked the beginning of his hunt. A mantra that the Khajiit would recite to appease the gods. After all, they were the ones who decided the outcome of his hunts. No matter how irrefutable his skill was with a bow, Hush knew that luck factored into every arrow he fired. These were decided by the gods themselves, the direction of the wind, the appearance of prey, the evidence of their tracks.

He'd long ago left the safety of the town; it was at least a full day's walk from the comfort of warm beds and frothing mead in Falkreath's tavern. But it was no matter to him. The innkeeper had asked a favour of him, rather than coin, in return for room and board. She had asked Hush for fresh meat, preferably wild venison. Apparently, their usual shipment of meat from a butcher in Markarth hadn't arrived. It was over four days late, and she'd begun to worry.

Jarl Siddgeir had dispatched a group of guards to comb its trade route, look for signs of the missing shipment. The prize cuts were the Jarl's favourite, so it was no surprise that he would want to know what had happened to the steaks and fine cuts.

Hush had obliged. If he could get onto the innkeepers good side, she may offer him a discount of some kind – or at least a free tankard of ale.

In truth, Hush knew that it was the best time of year for a deer hunt. The turning leaves cast a golden orange glow on the ground; the air was crisp and kept him alert. There was a fresh smell in the air that made him think of home. Anyone who hasn't hunted could understand the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of losing that arrow and hearing it 'thunk' into a beast's body. Hush believed it was to do with the primal instinct that every person had in them, back when civilisation was almost non-existent.

In those days, you had to hunt in order to survive. Of course, there were berries and nuts and grasses which the women gathered. But the real food came from the hunters, who were men. They had to be out hunting every single day, risking their lives to bring back a prize. It made Hush feel like he was reconnecting to his ancestor's primitive origins whenever he went hunting, back to his natural self, away from all the artificial restraints of modern life. He could already feel like his more primal, untamed self was coming out.

It was exhilarating.

As he stood, lifting his bow to feel its reassuring weight, his mind returned to reality. He had to focus, especially if he wanted to bring back a true prize, like an elk or large deer. The bigger, the better. He'd skin it and haul it back to his campsite about a quarter-of-a-mile away. From there, he could return to Falkreath to ask a few guards to help him haul it back into town.

He'd set up snares for rabbits, surrounded by tasty oats to lure it in. He'd placed around a dozen between Falkreath and his temporary campsite like a trail of breadcrumbs to retrieve on his way back to the settlement. They were an unreliable way to catch rabbits, but any they were able to catch would make a nice bonus to the elk Hush hoped to down. In the worst case scenario, he'd have to return to Falkreath without a prize deer, but the rabbit snares would ensure he wouldn't return completely empty-handed.

Hush set off at a brisk pace, weaving between trees, his stance bent and low. He stayed close to the ground, hoping to find fresh tracks or dung on the ground. His ears were pricked. They twitched, searching for any rustling noises in the undergrowth of the woodland. His eyes were wide, darting about for indicators of movement or touches of colour that were out of place. The wilderness was a chaotic place, but it still adhered to unspoken rules. For example, if leaves had been disturbed by the careless footsteps of an elf, their edges would be crumpled or otherwise bent into strange shapes.

His first clue came from his nose. A smell rushed into his sensitive nostrils, like the earthy scent of a young doe or other such animal. Hush followed the scent to a tree trunk a few dozen metres away. The smell was far more intense on the bark. Clearly, the prey had rubbed its flank against the great oak to mark the edges of its territory, or to show dominance.

Hush bent down, and placed a tentative finger onto the ground, there was the clearly defined shape of an elk's hoof-print. The Khajiit smirked and looked up from the print and around him. It was close. The prey was nearby, unaware of its doom.

He heard a twig snap somewhere in the distance, and his eyes snapped to look at where it had come from, but his vision was obstructed by a slope. He'd have to climb it. Hush sniffed the air as he slowly walked; hunched over like a predator, bow at the ready in front of him. He could smell something metallic too, like iron. But he was too far from Falkreath for it to be the forge, not to mention the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. It could only mean one thing.

Blood.

As he approached the top of the slope, and his eyes ventured over the crest of the upward slant, Hush cold make out nothing but the forest. Firs and oaks as far as the eye could see. But he sniffed again, discovering the smell was stronger this time. He was missing something. He looked left, then right. His eyes widened.

" _Alkosh have mercy..._ " He muttered, his combat-stance falling away.

It was the elk, but it wasn't alive. Not anymore, although clearly it had been. Recently too, if the fresh blood dripping from its slashed belly was anything to go by. The animal was impaled on a low branch of a tree, as if struck by a great force or carried and speared onto the limb of the trunk.

"This was no accident." Hush realised. "What hunter would do this?"

 _They wouldn't_ , what was the point? No arrow or blade could have slashed the dead creature so gruesomely. Its belly was ripped open, and its guts swung between its legs. A disgusting carcass presented like some kind of trophy, but Hush knew of no game hunter who could even do such a thing after a kill, waste a prime elk like this one.

It hadn't been skinned, or harvested in any way, simply slaughtered. Brutally, too. This wasn't the work of any man or mer, leaving only one answer.

A monster.

"Damn." Hush whispered, nocking an arrow to his bow, pulling his bowstring back slightly. He whipped around; his ears pricked for any noises that would indicate any sign of the killer.

When he found none, and after waiting a long minute in abject silence, Hush let his bowstring go slack and returned the arrow to his quiver. The Khajiit looked back to the corpse of the elk. If he could examine the clues, work out how the elk had died, Hush might be able to figure out exactly what monster had slain it – or narrow down the pool of suspects into a few prime contenders, at the very least.

Placing his bow against the trunk of a nearby tree, he peered more closely at the wounds on the elk's belly. It was a clean slice. The blow had been by something with very sharp claws, and judging by the depth of the laceration, an inordinate amount of strength. Strength and size went together like wine and cheese. So whatever had done this was _big_. Hush gathered that he shouldn't allow himself to get too close to the monster when he found it, or when it found him. One well-connected strike from the beast would cut clean through even the strongest armour, and he only wore leather to protect his vital organs.

Next, Hush examined the branch the carcass had been impaled onto. There wasn't much he could gather from it, but he knew one thing. Judging from how far the elk had been pushed onto the branch, the monster had done it deliberately. And the elk itself hadn't been consumed at all. The kill wasn't for food, it was for pleasure. The fact that the carcass was strung up too, like some sick trophy, indicated that this was a warning or a show of force. This area of the forest belonged to the monster. The elk was here to emphasise the point.

Clearly, there was some intelligence here. Not sufficient to show that the creature was sentient, but enough to demonstrate that this kill had been for pleasure, not necessity.

And the smell too, mixed in with the blood and rotting meat, there was something else – something even more pungent. Hush glanced at the stump of the tree and found his answer. A tuft of hair, not belonging to the elk. The colour was different.

It was a far lighter shade. Whilst the elk's fur was a darker shade of brown, so dark it was almost black; whereas this fur was lighter, more akin to the colour umber than brown.

Hush had it narrowed down to two possible suspects. Judging from the size and strength demonstrated by the creature, as well as the colour of fur, he believed it could only be an adolescent lycanthrope or an older Forest Troll. Both were dangerous in their own right, but the Khajiit knew that the full moon was still at least eight days away. So it had to be the former.

He was almost certain, but one thing got in the way of his judgement.

The impalement of the elk onto the branch. It just didn't make sense. It was as if someone or something had hung it there as a perverted trophy of some kind. Trolls were renowned for their hunting ability, but also for their stupidity. Everything else added up, except for that. Hush shook his head. Even if it defied logic, he had learned to go with his gut instinct. Perhaps this Troll was simply an anomaly, more intelligent due its advanced age.

The Khajiit growled at his loss for ideas, but he would have to settle for it. A Troll was his best lead until he could tell otherwise. Hush scanned the ground around the tree for any sign of the monster's tracks. It didn't take long, as Hush quickly discovered there were several large footprints leading away from the elk carcass. The Khajiit followed the trail for a few minutes before he heard a distant shouting from the east, directly where the tracks had been going. The shouting was distinctly human, and Hush raced after it. The sounds were ones of panic and agony. It seemed the troll had discovered a more appealing prey to hunt. The Khajiit grimaced as he sprinted through the woodland, as silently but as swiftly as he could manage.

A roar drowned out the screaming. It was animalistic. Deep and savage, Hush couldn't be certain if it was a roar of victory or anger. But it confirmed his suspicions; this monster was a Troll.

As he drew closer, he thought on the tomes he had read about the creatures. He knew from multiple books and from previous experience with the savage beasts that they were susceptible to fire, but Hush didn't know any spells, despite telling himself repeatedly to learn some one day as a last-resort defence if he was ever bested in close quarters. Hush damned his tardiness and procrastination, but there was no time to dwell on such things - lives were in danger.

He wracked his brain for anything else he could recall about the monsters. Regeneration abilities helped them survive even the greatest of wounds inflicted on them. They could only by killed by an overwhelming amount of force before their healing factor could aid them, or by precise strikes - either to the heart, brain or other similarly vital organ.

His train of thought was left behind as he set his eyes on the creature for the first time. Indeed a Troll, the first thing he noticed about it was its size. The monster was easily twice the bulk of others of its kind. It was covered in scars and old wounds, and even had a couple of old, snapped arrow shafts buried into its back. It wore its wounds well, a clear testimony to the years it had lived and the fights it had won, against both man and beast.

A man continued to scream as the troll drew nearer to him. It seemed he was bound to a similar fate as the elk Hush had been tracking beforehand.

Without hesitating or stopping his sprint, Hush nocked an arrow to his bow and pulled back the bowstring until it was touching his cheek. He released his grip and the arrow soared through the air, embedding itself into the flank of the troll with a satisfying 'thump'.

The Troll roared in frustration rather than pain, and diverted its attention from the injured Falkreath guard to face him. The Troll began a charge towards Hush, but the Khajiit had another arrow at the ready by the time the creature's three beady eyes focused on the mercenary.

The second arrow soared through the air, closing the distance between the archer and the monster in no time at all. It flew straight into the Troll's third eye in the middle of its forehead. This time it did roar in pain and fury, all directed at Hush. And something must have made the creature realise that the archer wouldn't be able to win this fight, for it ran off deeper into the forest, presumably to return to its dwelling and lick its wounds.

Hush let it go. Partially due to the injured man needing his aid, and because he didn't have enough arrows to take on such a beast. He only had eight arrows left in his quiver for the time being. He'd come here to hunt rabbits and deer, not a damn Troll.

He also wanted to know if there was a bounty on the monster. The Khajiit felt confident that he would be able to best it, given that he had the correct supplies for the job. First, though, this man needed medical attention, or at least someone to comfort him as he passed on to the next world.

As soon as Hush was certain the monster was far away enough to breathe easy, the Khajiit focused his attention on the wounded guard. The usual grey-blue colour palette of his armour now stained with his own crimson blood. As Hush approached, he tried eyeing up how bad the man's wounds were, but was interrupted when the Guard suddenly drew a knife and pointed it straight at him, freezing the Khajiit in his tracks.

"Get back!" He screamed. "I'll kill you, I swear!"

Hush put up a placating palm as he padded closer. The man was losing a lot of blood, it was likely he'd be delirious.

His helmet was off, knocked away a swipe of the Troll, if the claw marks on his face were anything to go by. His eyes darted around frantically, as if expecting the monster to return at any moment. Hush was worried about his leg most of all though. Just below the knee of his right leg, there was nothing. It was gone. Only the bloody stump remained - the muscles and femur on full display.

"Stay back!" He screamed again, snapping the Khajiit out of his analysis. "I'm warning you, cat!"

Hush ignored the slur. He was all but too used to such racially motivated curses by now. The Nord was also probably in shock too, if his wounds were anything to go by. So the Khajiit would give him the benefit of the doubt for now.

"Calm down, friend, or your shouting will bring the beast back. And neither of us would want that, yes?"

As if realising his mistake for the first time, in response, the guard dropped the dagger to the ground and clamped his shaking hands over his mouth. His entire body trembled in terror and the rush of adrenaline, trying to suppress the pain of numerous wounds.

Hush kept a wary eye out as he bent down, removing his hooded cloak and wrapping it just above the severed appendage as a makeshift tourniquet. It wouldn't do well for very long, but if the Nord could survive long enough for the Khajiit to make it back to Falkreath with him, he just might stand a chance of surviving.

As he wrapped the cloak, Hush questioned the man for information about the Troll. Any and all knowledge could help him in this hunt. "What is your name, friend?" Hush asked, without looking at the man.

 _"Thaler."_ He whimpered through his clenched bloody fingers.

"Thaler, can you tell this one what you were doing out here?" Thaler winced as Hush finished applying the rudimentary tourniquet, tying a knot in the fabric to keep it from falling off as they made their way back to Falkreath.

"We were... looking for a shipment..." He replied, pain clear in his voice. Clearly, the adrenaline of being faced with certain death was wearing off.

"A shipment, hmm? In Troll territory? It must be an important delivery." The Khajiit chuckled, trying to distract the man with humour.

"Oh, Gods. They're... they're all dead, aren't they?" He seemed to be on the verge of tears, whether from despair or just the pain though, Hush couldn't know for certain.

"Yes, Thaler. It is likely. No one walks away from a Troll attack. Not even armed guards like your men." Hush responded.

But the Nord had barely heard him, instead looking around at the bloody cobblestones that were littered with body parts and gory fabric, broken weapons and tattered limbs.

"We thought that it was just a myth." He whispered. "A bedtime story to scare children into obeying their parents, or else the Great Forest Troll would snatch them from their beds at night and eat them."

"This one is familiar with such fairy tales." Hush nodded. "But there is always some truth to stories, no?"

"But it's _real_ , don't you understand?!" He shouted at the Khajiit. "And it ripped them apart, that... _thing_." Thaler whispered, the events that he had witnessed unfolding again as if he was reliving them as he spoke. "It was just me, Thukmar and Ysgrit."

Then his eyes widened.

"He has a child on the way." His eyes snapped to stare at Hush, and the fear became all too apparent to the archer. "Thukmar – he was going to be a _father_... Gods, what am I going to say to Vorith?"

Hush's face softened. This was the part of his work that he hated. As a monster-slayer, there was always this unspoken rule that his guild followed.

It doesn't matter who posted the notice - the coin has to be right, that's all. His kind didn't debate about consequences. Their conscience plays no part in it; they just got on with it. They just pick up the coin pouch tossed at their feet and set off on their way. This wasn't what he saw often – the loss, the heartache and the anguish that the presence of a monster creates in people.

"This one..." Hush spoke softly. "He is sorry..."

The Nord grabbed Hush by the scruff of his shirt, pulling the Khajiit close to him. His clenched fist trembled, but not in fear now, just anger. Pure rage.

" _Kill it_. _"_ He growled. "Whatever it takes, I don't care. Just... avenge him, _please_..."

Thaler's grip went slack, his hand falling to the ground as his head lolled to the side. Hush looked at the man, already knowing he was dead. The Khajiit sighed, nodding. He would keep that promise, for Thaler. For a father that would never be, and for all those that the Troll had killed in its long life.

There was no time to return to Falkreath. There was no telling where the monster could strike next, but seeing as Hush had managed to shoot it in an eye, it was likely the Troll had returned to its lair. To lick its wounds and come back to full strength before returning to the forest to wreak havoc on whatever it saw.

No more lives would be lost today because of this creature.

Hush had to end this. Now.

He spared another look around him to survey the carnage this one monster had unfolded - the body parts and fresh blood soaking into the soil and the flies already buzzing over the still-warm bodies. Hush sighed, then strode off into the forest where the Troll had run, hoping that he'd find a fresh trail to follow.

 **VIIIIIV**

It hadn't taken long.

The fleeing creature had left a trail of chaos in its wake as it had run from Hush after their confrontation. Branches were bent in an obvious trail, and the ground was scuffed by wide tracks, clearly marking where the monster had run.

The Khajiit bent down every so often to coat his fingers in the intermittent blood splatters that the Troll had left behind

He smelled the monster before he heard it, and then heard it before he laid on eyes on it. It's stench was a mix of the earthy ground as well as the blood it's mouth and fingers were covered by. It growled and grunted to itself from within its lair. The lair in question was a small cave hidden amidst some rocks and trees.

As Hush approached, he could easily make out the deep claw marks gouged into the bark of the tree-trunks. He put a gentle hand up to one of them, trying to get an idea of the monsters handspan, but grimaced when he realised how long this Troll's claws truly were - all fifteen inches, at least.

The light of the day quickly disappeared as the Khajiit ventured into the cave system, but his race's natural ability to see in low light granted him a crucial edge, and he barely noticed a difference between the two states. Drawing an arrow from his quiver, Hush slowly loaded it on his bow, but did not allow himself to draw the string back yet. He moved carefully. With purpose. To alert the Troll to his presence before he had a good shot on the creature would be a fatal error.

The hunter looked around the cave quickly, his eyes darting around as quickly as he could manage. As he searched for any sign of movement, his foot knocked quietly against something on the floor of the cave.

Hush glanced down, seeing a long thin object no longer than a short sword. He bent down to inspect it, believing it to be a branch or other such thing. He squinted, then realised his mistake. It was a femur, but too small to be a part of any of the guards who had been ambushed on the road. The white of the bone was clear against the cave floor, but the surface was caked in mud and blood, with bits and pieces of rotting flesh scattered nearby.

It was smaller than Hush had first thought too. The entire thing was only as long as his forearm, but this one was distinctly human. The Khajiit briefly concluded that the Troll must've ambushed and eaten a young woman on her way to or from Falkreath. But then he saw something else that changed his judgement again.

A child's doll, ragged and threadbare, lying a few feet away from the bone.

A _child_. The Troll had stolen and _eaten_ a child.

The Khajiit suddenly became angry, his hand clenching into a fist. He growled in a primal way, turning to go deeper into the cave when a shape began shuffling forward from the shadows in front of him. The Troll. An enormous brute, its three beady black eyes focused on him, except for the centre one that Hush had already blinded. The shaft had been snapped off, but the tip clearly remained in the socket, and it moved as the eyeball swivelled around in the beast's head, wedging itself deeper in the beast's eye.

Hush smiled. Good, that meant it was in pain. And the more pain he could cause to the thing before he killed it, the better. A shame he only had seven arrows to use. Far from ideal, but enough to get it done.

The monster roared a challenge at the Khajiit, and Hush roared in turn.

"Come on, you son of a bitch!" He bellowed, drawing back the arrow mounted on his string, letting it fly, wedging itself into the flesh on the chest of the creature.

The Troll recoiled slightly, but soon charged at Hush, fangs bared in fury. The hunter rolled clear of the creature's deadly strike at the last possible moment, firing another arrow in the monsters back as he righted his posture and came out of the roll.

The Troll grunted in annoyance and rounded on Hush once more. It swung an arm in a back-handed motion, the force of the swipe knocking Hush into the air and crashing into the cave wall of the far side of the dwelling.

Hush grimaced in pain as he stood, the wind knocked from his lungs. He breathed carefully as he kept his eyes on the Troll, who beat its chest in triumph. The Khajiit was lucky it had hit him with the back of its massive paw, as its sharp claws would've made quick work of his leather cuirass had they been used instead.

The archer had lost his bow as he had been flung, his grip loosening on the weapon with the force of the impact. Growling, he snatched his dagger from its sheathe on the small of his back. The blade was more to be used for skinning game than self-defence, but the Khajiit didn't have many other options at this point.

He span it between his fingers for a few moments, getting a feel for its weight, wondering how much force he'd have to use to split the beasts belly open from throat to groin. He smiled at the thought of the monsters innards splayed out on the ground as it lay dying.

All he had to do was make the thought a reality. Easier said than done.

"This is for Thaler, you bastard." Hush said to it.

The Troll charged once more, but this time Hush was more than ready. He dove between its massive legs, catching it off-guard. Just as he'd hoped, the monster spun around to look for its prey but let its guard down in the process.

As it turned, Hush brought his dagger as high up as he could manage. He slashed the blade once in a horizontal fashion, putting as much effort into the slice as he could. Just as he hoped, the knife connected with the Troll's throat, tearing the flesh in two. A wide laceration formed in its neck, and the monster tried to screech in pain.

The only sound that emerged was a wet, sloppy gurgling as the brute flailed its arms around in a last ditch effort to injure its killer. But it had no such luck, quickly tiring from the blood loss and the floundering. Within a minute, the beast lay motionless on the cave floor. Hush sniffed then exhaled harshly. He scanned the room quickly for any signs of his lost bow.

Hush quickly located the Dwemer weapon, and he walked over to pick it up, wiping some dirt off of its limbs. Slinging the reclaimed weapon over his shoulder, Hush turned back to the corpse of the beast. The Troll that had murdered good men for a few slabs of meat. A creature that had stolen children from their families, only to be eaten and the remains left to be pecked at by rats and pests.

"Good riddance." He muttered, his voice bouncing off the walls of the small cave.

Hush weighed the skinning dagger in his hand, then gripped the handle. He drove the blade into the neck of the Troll and began sawing the flesh and muscle until he reached the spine. He broke the bone and continued to slice the flesh until the head rolled away from its body. He hefted it up by a clump of bloody fur to meet his gaze. Its lifeless eyes stared back at him; and a tongue flopped out the side of its disgusting mouth.

Hush's lips instinctively curled in disgust, and he let the head hang by his side. He stared at the decapitated body for a long moment. Then he kicked it in the stomach and left the way he'd come with every intention of going back to Falkreath.

 **VIIIIIV**

The decapitated head of the Troll slammed onto the polished wooden floors of the Jarl's Hall with a wet thump. Hush stood motionless, his features hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, staring at the contorted face of the Jarl, a mixture of pleasure and disgust on his thin visage. The Khajiit could hear the guards around the room muttering to one another, but he paid them no mind.

"Congratulations, hunter." Siddgeir began, regaining the kind of composure fitting of a Jarl. "I'd like to extend my personal gratitude for bringing me such a trophy."

"This one would prefer a hefty coin pouch." Hush replied, his tone cold and detached.

The Jarl waved the statement away with a lazy movement of his wrist and a slight nod.

"Naturally." He agreed. "Though you must tell me how you managed to kill the beast. Many claimed it to be immortal, you see. _Unkillable_."

Hush remained quiet for a moment, standing completely still. After a few seconds had passed, he answered.

"There is no such thing as _'unkillable'_. Only an idiot would claim such a thing." His tone remained impassive, but the words were clearly offensive to the Nord.

The Jarl sneered, his words turning venomous. Hush thought the look was rather unflattering on the young man's features, eliciting a small smirk of humour on his otherwise stony face.

" _Watch your words, cat._ " He growled. "Do not forget you stand in my hall with my permission – which can be revoked, at any moment, I'll remind you. Call me an idiot again and you'll not leave here alive."

As if to illustrate his point, one of the guards drew a sword, but made no move towards Hush, despite his stance. The Khajiit sighed as if tending to a child throwing a tantrum as his attention returned to the Jarl.

"This one believes you misunderstand, my lord. Khajiit did not call you anything of the sort; he was merely speaking in a general sense. This one would be all too happy to explain, if you would only give him a moment."

"Then speak. And quickly. I grow tired of your prattle."

"The Troll attacked and killed three of your men." Hush's mind briefly cast back to the bloody face of Thaler, lying against the trunk of a tree, his leg torn off and his dead comrades in pieces around him.

"This one arrived moments after the confrontation. Trolls are dangerous monsters – fiercely territorial. Khajiit believes that this particular beast was attracted by the scents of a wagon hauling prize meats from Markarth. Killed the driver and helped itself to the contents. When your men found it, they didn't stand a chance." Hush explained.

"Do you claim that my men are no better than peasants swinging pitchforks?" The Jarl asked, his words sharp but not nearly as offense as he may have believed.

"Not at all. This one is sure that they are more than a match for common Bandits, but Khajiit believes you would agree there are certain differences between angry outlaws and an angry Troll, no?" Hush asked, an eyebrow raised.

The Jarl did not respond, except for grinding his teeth together in annoyance.

"Regardless, after this one discovered what remained of your men and followed the Troll back to its lair. A difficult fight, but as you can tell, not one that Khajiit was unable to win."

His story concluded, Hush waited for the Jarl to reply. His next words were not directed at the monster-slayer, though. Instead, they were targeted to Siddgeir's housecarl.

"Helvard, have some men round up the remains of our fallen. Make sure they are given a proper burial." He commanded.

"Of course, Jarl." The bulky warrior beside Siddgeir grunted before setting off towards the door, not before pointing to a couple of men within the longhouse. "You two, with me. Make sure one of you brings the necessary tools too, understood?"

Hush stopped listening and returned his attention to Siddgeir, who hadn't broken eye-contact with the Khajiit since their conversation had begun. The Jarl clicked his fingers, and his steward stepped forward. A thin Altmer woman stepped closer, a small chest in her grasp.

The Jarl opened the lid and produced a small pouch. He weighed it in his palm for a moment before tossing it to Hush, who caught it effortlessly in one hand. The tell-tale clink of Septims revealed the contents of the pouch, which was unfortunately lighter than the Khajiit was content with, but he wouldn't push his luck. He could tell the Jarl was in no mood to barter.

"You've done us a great service, cat. Feel free to rest for the night in the inn, hunter." Siddgeir began. "But if you _ever_ step back into my Hold without my express permission, I will ensure that you pay dearly for it."

Hush almost laughed in his face.

"Your tone may change when you have a Werewolf you need taking care of, or a Hagraven casting a curse on the town. _Until then_." Hush smiled, turning and leaving the longhouse without waiting for the outburst the Jarl would inevitably release.

 **VIIIIIV**

Later that night, Hush sat alone at the bar of the Dead Man's Drink. Clutching a half-drained mug of Black-Briar Mead in one hand, and spinning a Septim between his fingers in his other, he started to feel ready to call it a night.

He'd gotten into the tavern before the crowd would arrive. The barmaid had been kind enough to give him a drink on the house, but he'd insisted on paying anyway, seeing as he hadn't been able to bring back the elk like she'd asked him. It wasn't that he felt guilty, but Hush had always believed that once a promise was made or orders untaken, it was vital to keep them. That's what made him such a good monster-slayer. He never abandoned his contracts, never broke his promises to the people who'd pleaded for his help.

The Khajiit finished his drink in a few large gulps, then wiped the foam from his top lip as he placed the mug back down on the counter. He twisted in his seat to fetch his coin-pouch from his hip when he heard the quiet footsteps of someone walking over to him. His gaze flicked up, expecting to see a patron coming in from a hard day's work, ready for a cold drink and warm food before going home.

Instead, he was rather surprised to see a rather well dressed Nord walk steadily towards the counter. He silently pulled out a stool, which he sat on slowly, with purpose. It almost reminded Hush of his earlier hunt from the way this man moved.

"What are you having?" The barmaid asked, eager to see to her newest bar patron hand over some Septims.

"Cyrodilic Brandy, if you please." The stranger asked. Hush raised his eyebrow as he watched the last dribbles of liquid collect at the bottom of his tankard.

"Oh, got high-born taste, sir?" She asked, reaching for a bottle underneath the counter.

The man chuckled. "I'd much prefer something else, but I swore it off years ago. It was more of a vice, you see. Alcohol is the lesser of two evils, I believe."

"I think I understand, sir." The barmaid nodded, pouring out his beverage into tankard like Hush's.

"And one for him, as well." The Nord added, gesturing slightly to the Khajiit.

Hush was about to comment about how he was going to his room for the night, but he caught a glimpse of the way the stranger stared at him out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps it would be better to remain seated for now.

A fresh mug was placed in front of the archer within a minute, and the barmaid went back to her business in the tavern, collecting dirty dishes from tables and stoking the fire-pit in the centre of the room.

"This one would not take you for a skooma addict, stranger." Hush began, knowing the stranger wanted to initiate conversation with him.

The man actually laughed at that.

"Oh, no. I wasn't referring to that blight, my friend." He nodded, sighing. "My addiction harmed far more people than any skooma dealer ever could."

"Khajiit supposes he should thank you for the Brandy. This one usually only has coin for Mead." The archer replied, lifting the mug slightly before taking a swig from it.

"I doubt that. After all, you're hardly a farm-hand." The stranger responded stoically.

"You would be wise to not presume to know me, stranger." He hissed.

"Oh, but I do." The man replied, a curt smile on his lips. "I'm afraid I know you all too well, Hush."

The Khajiit's hand gently started to go to the hilt of his dagger. This man was an unknown quantity. That meant he was a danger to Hush and everyone else in this tavern.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"My name is Luther. I'm not here to hurt you - or anyone else here, for that matter."

Hush didn't waver from the hilt of his dagger. The blade remained in its sheath, but his grip slowly tightened on the hilt. Instead, he peered more closely at the stranger. His face was gaunt; the skin seemed strained and tight on his sharp features. Luther's skin was pale, a ghostly pale pigment that only made his bright blue eyes shine in his sockets. His lips were thin, and his face was almost impassive. Whenever Luther spoke, it was with a high-class but flat accent.

It all started to add up in Hush's head. The Khajiit's voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

"You're a vampire, no? A _Cold One_."

Luther smiled. It was the kind of smile made by someone who has never felt the inclination to grin before. Someone who has long forgotten the muscle movements involved in smiling, if indeed they ever knew at all, and is having to figure them out from first principles without being granted the chance to practice. Not only did it not reach Luther's eyes, it didn't reach any other part of his face, as if it were disembodied and being operated by an outside agent. It was more wicked and malicious rather than warm or approaching, more resembling the expression worn by a predator far more used to baring their teeth in threat than expressing any form of pleasure or mirth.

"You're rather perceptive for a mortal, I congratulate you."

Hush's hand was almost working on its own. He only managed to keep his dagger in its sheath through sheer willpower alone.

"What now?" Hush asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

"I only wish to speak with the acclaimed monster-slayer. I should warn you though; draw that blade, not only will you die, but so will everyone in this town." Luther threatened.

A long moment went by, but eventually Hush let go of the hilt. He returned to his drink, waiting for whatever Luther would say next.

"I'm here on business." The vampire explained. "In fact, I want to offer you a _contract_."

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Reviews:**

Good read, love anything involving a Khajiit protag. Looking forward to your next chapters

 **Thank you very much for the feedback. I hope you enjoy the rest of this story.**


	3. Chapter II - Contract from A Cold One

**The Keys of Khagemar**

 **Chapter 2 – A Contract from a Creature of the Night**

Hush and Luther sat facing opposite of one another in a room the latter had rented out for the week. The table that separated them was the only obstacle between the two. The vampire had promised the Khajiit monster-slayer that he only wished to talk, but if the discussion turned into something sour, the aged wooden furniture between them wouldn't offer much protection for the Khajiit.

The candles that lit the room flickered gently, the dim light glinting off the vampire's cold grey eyes, giving them a haunting orange tint. Every time his face moved, Hush could see the skin stretch over his features, almost as if it were a tight doublet at a fancy banquet.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me." Luther began, the tips of his fangs showing every so often when he spoke.

"It was not as if you offered me much choice." Hush replied, his voice low.

"Nonsense." The vampire shook his head. "I only wished for you to join me somewhere more quiet. Someplace where the walls don't have ears."

"This one is starting to believe you may be a little paranoid, no?" Hush countered. He would not allow his guard to drop near this creature. He knew that this vampire may pretend to be an intelligent being, but the Khajiit knew the truth. It was a monster, nothing more.

And he _killed_ monsters.

"Perhaps, but when you've made the decisions that I have, you begin to take precautions." Luther smirked.

The Khajiit was silent. He did not wish to make idle chit-chat with a monster. If the vampire was here to discuss business, then he'd better get on with it. They were not friends.

They would _never_ be friends.

"You say you wish to discuss a contract, yes?" Hush encouraged.

Luther cleared his throat, then put a hand to his neck, as if he had something itching him there.

"Ah, yes." Luther seemed to become rather nervous - a crack in the facade. "You see, it is a delicate matter. I only approach you out of necessity. If there was a way for me to do this alone, believe me, I would."

Hush held up a hand to stop Luther before he began ranting.

"This one believes there is a matter of payment to discuss before you tell me the details, yes?"

Luther nodded, shrugging his shoulders.

"Believe you, me; money will be no issue. Help me complete this contract, and you will be given a reward greater than you can imagine."

Hush hummed, nodding his approval.

"This one is unsure, Khajiit can imagine _quite a lot_." Hush encouraged.

"Hmm." Luther spoke. He thought for a moment. "How does ten thousand Septims sound?"

Hush nearly snorted with laughter, but kept his composure.

"It sounds like you could afford to rent this room for longer than a week, Cold One." Hush replied.

"Ha, very true." Luther smiled. "But I have lived for over four hundred years, Hush. You can probably imagine I've managed to amass my fair share of wealth over that amount of time, going from Cyrodiil to High Rock, changing my name every time."

"Khajiit does suppose you are right." Hush replied, nodding slightly. "Ten thousand seems appropriate, if your contract is as important as you claim it to be."

"Oh, it is. Important as anything could ever be, but just as dangerous." Luther pointed out, waving his hand as if to articulate his point.

"This one understands. Khajiit had taken on dangerous contracts before; this one can handle most things you could ask of him." Hush reaffirmed.

"Hm, I'm sure you have. But this is a mission of an altogether different nature to killing a local lycanthrope causing issues for the town's hunters."

"You make my profession sound so easy."

"Not at all. What you do _is_ difficult; I have no illusions about that. But you must understand, what I am about to ask you is something far more challenging than anything you've been through before, I can assure you of that."

"Then talk." Hush demanded.

Luther nodded, his expression sombre and his pale skin taught as he pursed his lips in thought. Hush was silent. Now was the time for him to be quiet and listen to what his client had to say.

"His name is Khagemar." Luther began. "He has killed thousands of innocent men, women and children over several millennia."

"Another vampire?" Hush asked, slightly surprised.

"Is that so strange? Mortals have set bounties on one another for as long as anyone can remember – why should immortals be any different?" Luther returned.

Hush was silent, resuming his patient listening, like a priest would listen to a sinner's confessions in a holy sanctum.

"To know the importance of what I ask of you, Hush, I must tell you a tale first. You see, for as long as vampires have existed, since Molag Bal granted the gift to the select few, there have been those known as the 'pure-blooded'. Higher Vampires, if you will."

"A vampire is just that, though. A monster. Surely you are all similar, no?" Hush interrupted.

"Oh, indeed, there are many of us." He nodded, a small humourless smile on his sharp face at being called a monster. "Subsequently, your kind, which is to say; mortals, have such a narrow view of our species. What you call a 'vampire', while true, is comparative to calling an Altmer, Orsimer, Dunmer and Bosmer the same, simply because they are all elves."

"What do you mean?" Hush asked.

"It's a blanket term, you see." He explained. "There are quite a few different subspecies under the term 'vampire', not unlike the differences between the races of Men and Mer."

Hush waited to hear more. Clearly, the Cold One was in no hurry to explain the concept to Hush, taking his time to explain the ins-and-outs of the topic.

"There's the Dhampir, the kind that enslave deceased mortals to do their bidding. A rather perverted ritual, in my opinion. Also the Strigoi, many of whom have made pacts with Daedra to become more powerful. And of course, the Adze. They are rather... feral. _Never_ invite one to dinner." He smirked.

"And what are you?" The Khajiit asked.

The other man's expression turned sour, and his face betrayed the hint of impatience and annoyance he so clearly felt.

" _I'm patient_." He muttered. "In simpler terms, what all those subspecies have in common is their appetite. They're all quite uncivilised, really. Go mad with bloodlust whenever they smell even one drop of the stuff. Thus, they have earned the same title of 'Lesser Vampires'."

"Mindless beasts, then?"

"Quite." He nodded. "They will do anything for blood. Such vampires have little regard for balance or the continuation of life on this planet. If they were given an opportunity to feed on the entire world – well, I am rather certain they would make the decision to slaughter your kind in a heartbeat."

"And you wouldn't?"

"Indeed." The vampire reaffirmed. "I am rational. I can think for myself, make decisions based on the consequences of my actions and think about the best course of action. I only kill to feed if absolutely necessary."

"What qualifies as 'absolutely necessary'?" Hush pressed.

There was a long pause.

"I struggle to recall. I haven't killed a mortal by feeding on them in over two centuries. Whenever I've fed, which is rarely, it has been with the mortal's consent, and it is never more than they are willing to give."

"Really?" Hush asked, almost in disbelief. "This one is starting to doubt you are a vampire at all."

"You would be wise to not doubt my abilities, monster-slayer." Luther's tone turned darker for a moment. "I swore off blood a long time ago, but that does not mean I pose no threat."

"Khajiit meant no offence." Hush replied, holding up a pacifying hand to extend his contrition. He did not want to anger this Cold One, knowing a Higher Vampire, no matter their disposition on drinking blood, would be more than a match for one lone Khajiit.

"None taken. Believe me; you'd know if I had." Luther sniffed. "But I digress; we were discussing the target of this mission. As I was saying; Khagemar, like me, is a Higher Vampire, he is cruel and calculating. Powerful beyond belief. His blood is pure of any mortal dilution, having inherited his vampirism from one of the first to ever be blessed by Molag Bal."

"A living weapon then." Hush surmised.

"Quite." Luther agreed. "And Khagemar knew it. Wherever he went, destruction and despair came with him. Whereas other Higher Vampires would hold back, think rationally, Khagemar flaunted his power – he was unrestrained. He could raze cities to the ground single-handedly; or drink a town dry in one night. No mortal could hope to stop him."

"So, what happened? Why has no one heard of Khagemar?" Hush asked, intrigued by Luther's tale.

"Khagemar's recklessness brought trouble on the entire species. Common folk wearied of living in constant fear. They began to hunt us down, hired mages and monster-hunters like you to track us down."

"They were a threat to vampires?" Hush asked. "Your kind were being killed?"

"Not at all. You can never actually kill a vampire in the truest sense of the word. You can burn one, drown it, bury their remains, decapitate them – even so, we can regenerate from such injuries, you see. But such things take time - _years_ , in many cases."

Hush hummed in thought. That was a new prospect he hadn't considered about their race. Perhaps the vampires he'd killed in the past would return to try and kill him in the future as a way of revenge. He'd need to be more careful in the future.

"So, the people took up arms. So what? Not like they could hope to kill you." Hush argued.

"But they were bothersome. Forgive the comparison, but when was the last time you enjoyed having a mosquito buzzing around your head? In any case, the other vampires decided that something had to be done. Khagemar had to be caught and punished."

This intrigued Hush. Vampires hunting others of their kind? He'd never heard of anything like it.

"A torture chamber was thus outfitted, and he trapped was inside by his brothers and sisters. A place so contained that Khagemar's terror over Tamriel turned from horrible memories that would create waking nightmares into myth, and then again into legend. Even that was slowly left behind as civilisation marched forward." Luther revealed to the Khajiit, who sat quietly on the other side of the table.

"Where is he held?" The mercenary asked.

"Cavern Sanguis." Luther told him. "But, like I said, it is hidden. So well, in fact, that even most vampires have forgotten where it lies."

"So why the contract?" Hush asked, almost feeling a compulsion to do so. "It seems that Tamriel is safe as long as the prison remains ancient history, no?"

"I wish that were true, Hush. But, you see, there is a cult of vampires gathering influence and strength that I can no longer face alone. It is their goal to find and release Khagemar to bring about an end to mankind, and thus - a world dominated by vampires."

"And you don't want that?" Hush asked, almost in disbelief.

"Like I said; I value the balance of the world. Khagemar will not only upset that balance, but shatter it completely. If allowed to escape, he will not stop until he has bled every living being dry. There will be nothing left of the world you know."

Hush hummed as he considered everything that Luther had told him until now. It could be a very extravagant lie, but the Khajiit could think if any reason that the Cold One would have to do such a thing.

"Let's propose that this one believes you. Let's assume that there _is_ an ancient evil about to be unleashed on the world – and the only hope of stopping it is between a rogue Higher Vampire and a Khajiit monster slayer. Where do we start?"

"I admit, it does sound rather far-fetched when you put it like that, but I believe our best bet would be to hunt down members of the cult who aim to unlock his prison and free Khagemar. We should prioritise finding answers. We must know what the cult has discovered and how close they are o their goal."

Hush nodded. It was a good plan. Luther knew much about the legend of Khagemar, but seemed to be as clueless as he was when it came to anything material. They needed real information. The pair of them needed to know where the prison was, and how close the cult was to freeing its prisoner.

"Khajiit agrees. Do you have any clue to where this... _cult_ operates, or who they are?" Hush asked.

Luther seemed mildly uncomfortable, shuffling in his chair a little. "Not at this moment in time. They operate out of dozens of camps all over Skyrim, each searching for the entrance to Khagemar's prison. I have heard whispers, though, of one such camp near Ivarstead."

"That is good. There are allies that this one can call on if we need their aid. What do you know of the cult itself, or the camp?" Hush asked, as he rubbed his chin with a free hand in thought.

"Not much. I have never been anywhere close to it. As you can imagine, I try to distance myself from such... _uncivilised_ company." Luther added. "But I do know this; they are ruthless, bloodthirsty and so much worse than any Bandit or Thug you have ever faced. Their ranks vastly outnumber our own."

"What do we call them?"

"The Garkains. Vampires who would wish for nothing but your death, my downfall and the release of Khagemar – by _any means necessary_." Luther explained; his voice macabre and more than a little menacing.

Hush nodded solemnly, grimacing as he did so. As Luther revealed more about this contract, the Khajiit began to feel more and more nervous at the prospect of taking on such a looming - and seemingly unbeatable - danger to the entirety of Nirn, never mind Tamriel.

But a word once given...

"Very well." Hush stood from his seat. "When do we depart?"

 **VIIIIIV**

The early morning sun had yet to peek over the mountains in the small town of Shor's Stone just outside of Riften, but the sounds of the day's work were already in the air. A few shouts could be heard, fires were roaring and hammers were pounding away.

The small mining town had to operate early in the morning to get the daily work completed on time, and everyone had to pitch in. A group of guardsmen approached a large building, the local smithy, and the guard captain stifled a yawn with one hand as he made his way up the steps towards the forge.

The heavy puffing of the bellows dominated the small area as the five men filed in.

"Are you open yet? Or should I come back later?" The Nord called out, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the sounds of the forge.

"Don't worry, Captain!" A voice called out from somewhere near the bellows. "Your order's finished, I'm just trying to get these picks ready for the evening shift." A few moments later a rather sturdy looking Imperial appeared with a bundle of swords wrapped in linen in the crook of his arms.

He began to pass them back to their owners, smiling broadly as he did so, taking clear pride in his work.

"I finished them last night, gave them a bit more of an edge this time." The man commented as a guard thanked him. "When Juren told me that his blade got lodged in the hide of that sabre cat, well, I suppose my previous job wasn't good enough." The man chuckled at his own expense.

"Do not worry." The Captain started. "Your family may have taken over the smithy a while back, but you're a good lot. I'd wager you're even better than Balimund, but don't go telling him that." The other guards voiced their agreement as they inspected their own blades with keen eyes. "As such, here is your payment."

He held out a bag of Septims, to which the Imperial politely nodded as he received the pouch.

"Thank you, Captain." He paused as the guards began to depart for their patrols.

"Also…" The Captain paused briefly at the entrance, waiting for the Imperial to elaborate. "My wife would like for you and Kyra over for dinner tonight. We're having Roast Venison, the cuts were bought especially from Whiterun." The Imperial tossed the bag on a nearby table as he fixed his one good eye on him.

"I'll have to discuss it with my wife, but I doubt she'll refuse such a kind offer. I'll make sure to bring you two some Alto Wine as thanks." The Captain replied, sheathing his honed steel sword into its scabbard.

"We'd appreciate it, sir. Although I'm afraid Elicia has refused to touch the stuff for the next few months." The Imperial responded, grinning sheepishly.

"Ah, my apologies, I'd almost forgotten." The captain replied. "How long is it now?"

"Well, we only discovered she is with child a few weeks ago, sir. We've already made plans for a nursery though. With the Jarl's permission, we'll be ordering the lumber to build an extension soon enough."

"That's good to hear. Fatherhood is far more terrifying than any bear or wolf pack, I assure you, my friend. I still remember when my Borlunn came into this world. That was almost six winters ago now, but time truly flies – you'll see."

"I hope so, sir. I shouldn't keep you any longer, Captain. Thank you for your business."

"Indeed, my friend. Who else will tell these fools where to keep a look out, if not me? Duty calls." He waved as he turned to leave.

"Stay safe, Temrin!" The Imperial called out as he left, already he could feel the brisk day outside the heat of the forge.

"Kyne protect us both, Derrimus." He muttered under his breath.

 **VIIIIIV**

 _Meanwhile, in Riverwood..._

 **VIIIIIV**

"Vivian! Come out and help your father with the crops!" A middle-aged Breton woman hollered from a small garden next to a stone house. She tended to her flowerbeds, her own pride and joy and one of her only sources of true happiness left in the world.

Her hands were already dirty from tending to the delicate plants, filthy and brown from the nutrient-rich earth she used to fertilise the mountain flowers. Purple were her favourites, as they matched her daughter's eyes. She couldn't help but smile as she thought of her little girl, nearly seventeen summers old now – the years had flown by so fast.

"Don't make me tell you twice, Vivian!"

"Yes, mother..." A voice replied from within the house, still sounding rather sleepy and husky.

Vivian emerged, those familiar violet eyes and raven locks entwisted as if blown by a stormy wind. She wore a plain blue tunic and a pair of her father's dirty brown trousers. A rather unflattering outfit for such a fine young lady, Vivian's mother thought as she glanced at her daughter.

The woman stood from her flower-bed and strode over the younger woman, tutting as she did so. She quickly brought her hands up to unknot the girl's hair and pull it back into something that wouldn't get in the way whilst helping around the farm.

"Come now, Vivian, how many times must I repeat myself?" She chastised, her daughter no doubt rolling her eyes. "No man in Riverwood will ever give you a second look if you don't take care of your appearance, dear. Not even that nasty Sven."

" _Mother_..." Vivian replied, all too eager to leave her mother's attentive grooming and lectures.

The woman just sighed, then smiled slightly as she brought her palm up to cup her daughters face.

"But you'll always be beautiful to me, dear." She told her warmly. Vivian smiled in turn, before her mother sent her on her way. "Now, go on. Your father needs help planting the crop seeds. Help him, like we discussed."

"Yes, mother." Vivian replied, taking one last look at the ageing, but still beautiful woman that was her mother.

Minutes later, she approached her father, who was already busy at work, labouring over the troughs of his field as he sewed the crop seeds in rows to be harvested later in the year.

"Get used to it, honey." He said with wry smile as she approached, taking up a hoe, and driving it into the soil as she turned the earth over on the sewn seeds. "Your ears'll bleed with all the nagging she'll give you, now that you're getting older."

"And you'd know all about that, Pa, wouldn't you?" She replied in a jovial tone.

"Oh, aye. Not a day goes by that old goat doesn't tell me to thatch the roof, or check the cellar for skeevers." He laughed.

That earned a smile from Vivian, who briefly ceased her chores to look over at her father. He was a Nord, slightly younger than her mother. His fiery red hair had somehow not been passed onto her, although she wasn't about to complain. He'd told her that he was teased to no end for his ginger lockes as a child.

Of course, he'd always told her that he'd beat any milk-drinker who teased him to a pulp, but she knew he was lying. The man wouldn't harm a fly, and he knew it. To think that Nords were thought of as mighty warriors? Vivian supposed he was the exception - kind and generous to any who came under his roof.

"Are you going mushroom picking later?" He asked, snapping Vivian away from her daydreaming.

She took a moment to return to her senses, almost not understanding what he had asked her, but she nodded anyway.

"If you'll let me, Pa. There's a fresh patch of Blisterwort by the stream that a merchant told me about. It's a little ways off, but if I can get some and mix it with some leftover wheat in the storehouse, I bet I could make some healing potions. Maybe we could sell them to a traveller the next time someone comes through Riverwood?"

Her father hummed as he thought about it, but eventually nodded.

"Okay, but do your chores first, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." She told him, eagerly returning to work, knowing she'd be able to go mushroom-picking later.

"And you be careful when you go down there, alright? Some of the guards said there might be some Spriggans around near there. Now, you got to promise me, Vivian, that if you see anything like that – you run like the gates of Oblivion just opened behind you, got that?"

"Yes, papa. I will."

"That's my girl." He smiled, then looked to the sky. "Looks like rain soon. Vivian, would you mind running down to the lumber mill and asking Hod for some spare logs? We'll need some if we're going to stay warm tonight."

"Sure thing, Pa." Vivian replied, wedging the end of her hoe into the ground and heading off in the direction of the Riverwood lumber mill. It wasn't far, but Vivian took her time nonetheless.

Her heart began to beat faster as she grew nearer to the mill. She took her time wander as slowly as she could manage to spend a few precious seconds watching Faendal split wood on the chopping block. She stared at him in silent awe as she watched the axe come crashing down every few seconds to split a piece of wood like a knife through butter. This journey gives Vivian the chance to spy on the woodchopper, Faendal, as he worked.

A Bosmer, he is lean and muscular, sweat dripping from his body in the afternoon sun. She blushes, knowing that her father would never approve of a strong Nord girl like her being in love with an Elf.

But a girl is allowed to dream...

Vivian entered the lumber mill, quickly tracking down Hod. The man was a big brute, but a gentle giant. He'd always treated her kindly, almost like the uncle she never had. Gerdur was out of town, visiting some friends in Whiterun and picking up some supplies from Belethor at his general goods store in the square. She'd return before nightfall though. She'd told Vivian that she'd never stay in the Bannered Mare again if she could help it. Too many drunken brawls and not to mention that damn bard, Mikael.

 **VIV**

 _ **A few hours later...**_

 **VIV**

Later that evening, after she'd finished her chores for the day and she'd gotten permission from her parents, Vivian had left the boundaries of Riverwood to head south, towards the Guardian Stones. She'd stayed there for a while, praying. Vivian remembered coming to the three local standing stones on her tenth life-day with her father.

He'd said it was important for a true Nord to be blessed by the Divines, and that having a sign from one of the stones would grant her boundless luck for years to come. If she ever felt lonely or sad, she would come here to think and reflect. She felt closest to the gods here, like they were watching over her. Perhaps even protecting her.

It was a nice sentiment, at least. The gods probably had better things to do than watch her pray.

She smiled at the amusing thought before she gathered her things into her basket and made her way down the stream, near the mouth of the small lake. She saw Anise's cabin on the far side of the body of water, seeing no signs of movement from the batty old woman. Though a gifted alchemist, the frail old lady just seemed... off. Her mother had told Vivian once when she was a little girl that the old woman was secretly a Hagraven and stole children from their beds if they disobeyed their parents.

Suffice it to say, Vivian knew better than that now, but she still got the feeling that the old crone was hiding something. Why else would she live so far from the rest of the village?

Just then, she heard a strange whooshing sound above her in the night sky, almost as if some large bird had flown above the trees, leaving a gust of wind in its wake. Vivian looked up, but saw nothing. The air felt strange too, like dropping into a cellar on a hot day. And was it just her imagination, or was there a fine mist beginning to form, emanating from somewhere in the trees?

She shrugged the thought off and pulled her coat closer to her body as she focused on the ground. It was growing darker by the second, and Vivian wouldn't want to trip on something and twist her ankle at this time of night. It would leave her too vulnerable to wolves and she wouldn't be able to return to Riverwood until the morning if something should happen to her.

Vivian stooped lower to the ground, eyes glued to the earth, searching for Blisterwort mushrooms. She'd been running low on the ingredient for the past couple of weeks, and she desperately wanted some so that she could enjoy some time on the Sleeping Giant's Alchemy table. It wasn't long before she spotted some prime samples, and she picked some stalks and placed them neatly in her basket. As long as she rationed the resources she had for the time being, the Blisterwort could have adequate time to regrow here, and she would be able to come back in a month or so.

She arranged the Blisterwort in her basket as tidily as she could, then turned around, ready to return home. It was getting late, and the chores of her day had tired her out. Vivian felt more than ready for a good night's rest.

Something on the horizon caught her eye then, something not quite right. A soft orange glow coming from the direction of the town. The light stuck out like a sore thumb against the night sky. The temperature had dropped severely, too. What had once been a slight breeze had turned into a bitter chill that spread its icy fingers down her spine.

She walked back to Riverwood with a new haste. Just like her thoughts on Anise, something about this seemed wrong. Maybe it was nothing and it really was her over-acting mind winding her up. Perhaps the town was enjoying some kind of festivity, something that warranted a bonfire being lit? It might have been someone's life-day; she wasn't sure, Vivian rarely paid attention to such things.

She drew closer to her home, and suddenly heard a new sound. One that made her stomach turn.

Screaming. And not of merriment either, but terror. Sheer terror.

 _No, no, no..._

The village was on fire, and obsidian shapes with red eyes flit around the houses almost too fast for her to see, killing everyone and everything. Guards of the Hold lay dead or dying on the road, armour sliced through like a knife through butter. Throats were torn open and their bodies were maimed. Women and children were strewn about like ragdolls and the cattle were cut open and motionless.

The stench of blood and smoke was all she could understand. Fear gripped her heart and only one thought made itself known to her in that instant. She had to run.

Vivian had no idea what was going on, but she had to get home. _Now_.

She sprinted as fast as her legs would carry her, feeling as though the black shapes were following just a few footsteps behind her. She thanked the Divines that her family lived a little ways off the main village, and as she ran up the dirt path to her farm, she was relieved to see that the house seemed untouched by the chaos unfolding in Riverwood.

Vivian was almost at the door when she saw something that made her stop in her tracks. Something that sucked all the energy right out of her body.

Her mother. Lying dead on the porch, a last expression of absolute horror etched onto her fair features forever. Next to her body, her flowerbed, utterly destroyed and trampled.

She sank to her knees, her hands clutching at the other woman's apron, Vivian felt tears running down her cheeks but no sound escaped her. She was too scared, too heartbroken to produce any noise. She wanted to scream, to wail or cry out, but she couldn't.

A clattering from inside made Vivian look up from her mourning. Her mind snapped onto the only thing that she had left in this world, and how she had to protect it.

Her father. He was in danger.

Vivian took one last look at her mother, and closed her eyelids; at least she looked peaceful that way. Without sparing another moment, or without concern for her own safety, Vivian stood and made her way inside, opening the door carefully. After all, she had no idea what horrors could be inside her home at that moment.

The first thing she heard was her father, somewhere upstairs, whimpering in pain. She could hear voices too, and footsteps pacing to and fro. The house itself was a mess, tables were flipped over, patches of blood stained the walls and the floor, and candelabras were kicked over or broken. Clearly there had been a fight of some kind, but whatever had posed a threat to her parents had been completely overpowering, like a force of nature.

Vivian moved as slowly and quietly as she could up the wooden stairs, minding her footing so she didn't make the stairs creak with her weight. When she able to, she peeked just enough so that she could make out whatever was in the room with her father.

Three people, not including her parent, stood around the room. Two men with gaunt pale features stood motionless at the sides of the room, arms folded. They wore identical high-class clothing, almost as if they were in uniform but expected to be at a dinner party later in the evening. Their eyes were focused intently on her father, who lay at the foot of the bed, dozens of wounds and injuries covering his body. He was bleeding profusely and held his leg at an odd angle – it was clearly broken.

Lastly, Vivian saw a particularly well dressed woman leaning over the bleeding form of her father. She held a bloody knife in her hand, and Vivian recognised it as her father's dagger. She must have been the one to disarm and render him like this. His breath was shaky, ad he had bite marks all over his skin, as if left by an animal. The woman was screeching at him, filling the room with her incessant shouting.

"Where is it?" She asked. "Where is the artefact? We know you have one, Nord. You are a descendant of the Oathkeepers, we know this. Just tell us where you are hiding the key, and you can stop this bloodshed."

Vivian's eyes darted from her father to the well-dressed woman who had her back to the girl. She was confused, more than anything. Her father was a farmer, nothing more. He wasn't whatever these people claimed him to be, surely? After all, her father had never mentioned anything about a key or being an 'Oathkeeper'.

"Go to Oblivion, monster." He spits a wad of blood at her, staining her clothes and spraying her face. A moment went by and Vivian saw a flash of something resembling disappointment on her face. Without hesitating, she lunged forward and maimed her father Vivian could only describe it as what it was. She ripped him apart with her bare hands.

Vivian's breath caught in her throat as her father cried in agony. She couldn't move, rooted to the spot in total fear.

"A shame." She turned to the two men. "Find the key, tear apart this entire town if you must."

Vivian squeaked out of terror, and the woman turned with startling speed. She'd been heard. One of the men called out as he spotted her, and she ran back down the stairs and out of the door as fast as her feet could carry her.

Behind her, she heard whooping and howling, followed immediately by rushing wind and heavy footfalls. She was being pursued. She panicked, but didn't scream. Tears were streaming down her face. Vivian knew it was only a matter of time until she was caught and killed. Only a matter of time until she was torn apart by monsters masquerading as men. Only a matter of time until her soul was reunited with her parents in Sovngarde.

But she didn't want to die.

Not yet.

Not so soon.

There was still so much she wanted to do and see. She'd never been further than Whiterun. Vivian dreamed of seeing the Stone City to the West, built by the mysterious Dwemer. Or the fishing town to the east that was corrupt and infamous for thieves if one only looked below the surface.

She'd never even kissed anyone - never truly loved someone who loved her in return.

All these thoughts were snatched away as she felt a cold chill scrape its bitter icy fingers down her spine. A whoosh of air and an unearthly screech brought her back to reality, and all Vivian heard was the insane cackling of a madman about to pounce on his prey. A moment later and it was all over. A cold hand gripped her arm with unbelievable strength, as if the bone could be crushed without the slightest inkling of effort. Vivian tried to pry the fingers off her body, but the man holding her was too strong, his hand possessing a vice-like grip.

"Cease your struggle, child." He rasped in a hoarse, cruel voice. "Resisting will only bring you more pain."

Vivian knew the truth to his words, and stopped her writhing and prying as another man appeared next to the first.

"It seems the mortal knows to show obedience to her new masters, brother." The first man said.

Vivian wasn't listening anymore. She knew she was going to die, there was no point to anything now. She still heard their words, though, and was perplexed by the man referring to her as 'mortal'. Such a statement would indicate he was something else?

"Perhaps we might consider sparing her, then?" The other one chuckled. The laugh was not merry, but was evil and his words dripped with malice.

"You know me too well, brother. I was just thinking the same thing." The first replied, the grip on Vivian's arm never loosening.

"Y-you'll let me go?" She asked, her words small and terrified.

"Where on Nirn did you get that idea, child? We said we'd let you _live_ , not leave. You'll be our slave."

 _Oh, no..._

"Indeed. We vampires are very particular with our words, you see." The second one stepped closer, his eyes glinting ominously in the moonlight.

 _Vampires?_

Vivian wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat before she could do anything. Tears welled up in her eyes as the reality of what was about to happen hit her. Her parents had been murdered, her village was in ruins and her life was over – one way or another.

"After all, she is rather beautiful. Wouldn't you agree, brother?" The second vampire whispered as he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

"I would. And what's more; I can think of several ways she could be... _useful_ to us, don't you think?" The first vampire purred, his tone barely concealing his lust.

"It's been so long since I've felt the warmth of a woman in my bed, brother."

 _No. Divines, please, no..._

Then, without warning, the second vampire revealed his gleaming white fangs and leapt at her, embedding the pair of them deep into Vivian's neck. She could feel her blood being drawn by a force she couldn't resist. But her body was paralysed; she couldn't move nor scream for mercy.

Seconds passed, and as her vision started to lose focus and colour, Vivian finally gave in. She was scared, but knew that resisting would be pointless now. Minutes passed and the young Nord girl was drank dry, her skin became pale and her will ceased to be her own.

She was no longer Vivian. She was no longer the girl about to be a woman, the only child of simple farmers with a love of alchemy and a forbidden love of a particular Wood Elf. No. Now, she nothing more than a thrall. A slave to the whims of evil immortal beings.

 **Reviews:**

 **Eyy**

 **Noice work here, mate, a truly fine read, one I'm looking forward to seeing updated. Please do continue this story**

Thank you for the praise. I've got every intention of finishing this story, as I've wanted to write an Elder Scrolls story for a while, but it shouldn't be longer than twenty or so chapters.

 **Anonymous**

 **Reminds me of Warhammer's Brunner. Very well written; please continue.**

Thank you. I'm not too familiar with Warhammer as a franchise, but I'm glad you like writing. I've been story-writing for about five years now, and I hope it's paying off. Like I said to the previous reviewer, I'll do my best to keep this story going.

 **SuperGreG**

 **Such a delight to find an original Elder Scrolls tale, where the 'usual suspects' are relegated to the background, in favour of exploring something fresh and new. The primary Khajiit character seems an interesting individual and I can see how his activities might lead to some even more engaging storytelling than already demonstrated across the first two chapters. I think that he vaguely reminds me of another famous monster-hunter from another place, but that doesn't detract from the unique perspective of his Khajiit heritage. I do like what I've seen so far. Looking forward to seeing where this goes.**

 **Cheers,  
SGI**

Well, first of all, what a review! This is really high praise, and I'm so glad you enjoy what I've written so far, hopefully this chapter doesn't disappoint. I've been sitting on this idea for a while now, because I don't think the Dawnguard DLC went too far into the actual mythology of the vampires.

It seemed a lot more focused on introducing a guild of vampire-hunters and the kind of stupid goal that Harkon had in mind. I mean; get rid of the sun? Obviously, he didn't really think that one through. Get rid of the sun, you'll kill the plants, which will affect the food chain until humans go extinct, which means that vampires won't be able to feed anyway.

I've always loved the Witcher, if that's the other monster-hunter you're referring to, so there'll certainly be a few nods to that franchise along the way.

 **Other than that, thanks for reading, guys. Have a good day.**


	4. Chapter III - The Infiltration

**The Keys of Khagemar**

 **Chapter Three – The Infiltration**

Five days.

Five _long_ days.

That was how long they'd been walking for. Luther had been fidgety throughout the journey, insisting on keeping a low profile the entire time they travelled together. Hush was far more used to travelling alone, and found himself in a near constant state of annoyance while Luther accompanied him to Ivarstead. There wasn't much in the way of conversation between the pair, their uneasy alliance the most prevalent on the lonely roads.

If he'd been travelling alone, Hush knew he'd have been able to reach the town in less than two days – perhaps faster, if he felt like using some Septims to purchase a mount.

But Luther had been very clear about how they would make the journey. The vampire wouldn't allow them to travel along the roadside, so instead the pair had to wade through dense woodland and rough terrain whenever they walked. Luther also preferred to travel at night, when the risk of running into other travellers was reduced and there was no risk of him being burned by the sunlight. Hush could understand his wariness, if what he'd said about the Garkain clan being spread all over the province was true, but this was ridiculous.

The Khajiit knew that the pair of them would be far less suspicious if they journeyed like every other traveller in the land. The monster-hunter had tried to convince the other man that there was little risk of being discovered if they travelled like normal people. But Luther had just scoffed and insisted that they do it his way.

Hush was in no rush, and he still didn't fully believe the tale of a world-ending threat like Khagemar that Luther had told him about, but he wasn't fond of such erratic behaviour and unreasonable travelling methods.

If Luther had been anything other than a Higher Vampire, Hush would have called him a paranoid lunatic. But he kept his mouth shut and put up with it for the time being.

However, sleeping was the worst part of travelling with Luther by a very wide margin.

As a vampire, Luther could go for months without sleeping, but Hush simply couldn't manage to stay awake for as long as their journey required. Luther was understanding of this, if a little irked. But Hush had convinced the other man that allowing him to get some rest would allow him to stay alert while they walked. And Divines forbid they were attacked by Garkains while Hush was half-asleep. Even the Lightning Arrow needed rest to be at full strength if a fight broke out. Luther had nodded and allowed the Khajiit to sleep whenever the archer felt it was appropriate. Even so, Hush still wasn't sure whether or not he could trust the vampire yet, consequently keeping one eye open while he slept.

And with a dagger in his boot.

So, needless to say, when they finally arrived in the town that sat at the foot of the Throat of the World, Hush was more than happy to finally get a decent night's sleep at the Vilemyr Inn. They'd arrived while the evening's activity in the tavern was still in earnest. Villagers were assembled around the firepit, trading stories of their day or drinking from very well-used tankards. The smell of all different kinds of food filled Hush's nostrils as he and Luther entered the inn.

Their presence drew a few looks from patrons, but for the most part they were ignored and allowed to go about their business. The Khajiit immediately made his way over the innkeeper and slammed down twenty gold pieces on the counter, drawing the man's attention.

"Two rooms, if you don't mind. We've been sleeping rough for too long." Hush told him. The Nord just sneered though; his expression for the Khajiit was one of utter disdain.

"I don't let your kind sleep in my inn. Why don't you get out of here and go back to where you came from, _cat_." He spat.

Hush could feel the anger bubbling in his chest, but managed to push it down within him.

"This one does not think you understand-" Hush started, but was cut off.

" _You're_ the one who doesn't understand. This is my establishment. You can either leave, nice and quiet like, or things get ugly. I don't need your business, cat." The Nord interrupted.

Hush felt his hand subconsciously move to the hilt of his dagger, but through sheer restraint, he managed to keep it in it's sheathe.

"Khajiit agrees, innkeeper. But if that should happen, this one believes you will be the one who leaves here with a broken nose, yes?" Hush growled, drawing some glances from nearby revellers.

The Nord glared at the monster-hunter with an intense rage. This was going to get out of hand, and soon. If things escalated, the Khajiit might have to consider a night in a cell somewhere. He wasn't one to back down from a fight, but clearly neither was the Nord.

"Now, you listen to me, you bast-"

"Gentlemen!" Luther cut in, drawing the attention of both men. "There's no need for violence, surely. We come here, bearing no ill will for you, sir. We've had a long journey, you see." The vampire addressed the innkeeper now, staring deeply in his eyes. "We're both rather tired, and willing to pay extra if you'll let us stay for the night."

"I don't think so." The Nord replied, not breaking from Luther's gaze. "Your companion ain't allowed in here."

"I'm sure you could make an exception, just this once. Don't you?" Luther asked, his manner still light and friendly.

"I won't tell you again; leave on your own, or I'll-"

" _You will allow us to stay for the night."_ Luther's voice suddenly dropped in tone and his eyes lit up red. The innkeeper's face went slack and he seemed to be in a trance. _"You'll give us food and shelter and leave us be until morning. Do you understand?"_

"I..." He started; the words seemed flat and monotonous. "I... understand."

Hush simply watched the exchange in mild surprise, all thoughts of violence gone from his mind. This power that Luther demonstrated, it was awe-inspiring, and a little frightening.

"Thank you, that's very kind." Luther's voice returned to normal, his eyes turning to their usual steel grey colour, and he glanced at Hush, a tight smile on his lips.

"Right... this way. I'll take you to... your room." The innkeeper replied, walking as if in a daze from behind his counter. Luther collected Hush's Septims, then gestured for the Khajiit to follow to Nord.

Hush did so, watching the man's movements carefully as he trailed him. They seemed not to be his own, and he moved like Hush imagined a sleep-walker would, like a puppet controlled by strings.

They navigated their way through the swathe of people to reach one of the smaller rooms. It contained a wardrobe, two chairs on opposite sides of a small table and single simple bed.

"Let me know... if you want anything else." The innkeeper droned, then closed the door on the pair.

Hush stood for a moment, thoughts of shock racing through his mind. The Khajiit didn't let his face betray his feelings of confusion though, but he remained still for a moment longer before removing his weapons and setting them against a nearby wall.

"This is rather quaint, wouldn't you agree?" Luther smiled as he inspected the small room, stroking a table with an outstretched finger, then checking his hand for dust. "A little too cosy for the both of us, I fear."

"Would you mind explaining what in Oblivion you just did." Hush growled, but the vampire simply shrugged as he took a seat in one of the empty chairs.

"Ah, yes. In truth, it is an ability that many of my kind possess. We can, for lack of a better word, 'charm' our prey to be more – how should I say – _complicit_. Those we choose become far easier to persuade." Luther explained.

"This one imagines you could be a successful merchant with a power like that." Hush joked, his delivery completely deadpan.

Luther actually laughed at that.

He could also imagine it could allow a vampire to stop a person from resisting before they were drunk dry of all the blood in their body, but he thought Luther wouldn't appreciate such a taciturn comment.

"I suppose so, yes." Luther glanced at the Khajiit, a small smile on his pale face. "But it can't be done too often, as it uses a lot of energy and focus. Besides, such tricks only work on weak-minded individuals. Thus, you are in no danger of such hypnosis, my friend."

The Khajiit nodded, but stayed silent. If this was just a taste of the power of a vampire who didn't drink blood, Hush wondered to what extent of power Khagemar possessed in his prime. It was something he'd rather like to discuss with Luther at some point, but he was tired from their trek, and he could tell that the vampire would not volunteer such information so soon in their journey together.

Perhaps tomorrow, after they had gotten what they needed from the Garkain camp a few miles away, but not tonight.

 **VIIIIIV**

Many miles away from the small village of Ivarstead, near Dawnstar, a pair of vampiric orange eyes looked at the bloodbath that his apprentice had managed to invoke upon a group of Stendarr worshippers. The young Imperial's features hid a truth of bloodlust and the true age of his form. In reality, he was just over a century old, and had been a part of the Garkain's crusade to resurrect the Great One for the past decade or so.

Corinnor looked over to his companion, who was crouched next to a stream, washing fresh blood off of her hands and mouth. The newly-turned vampire had an annoying habit of running into a fight and obliterating anything she saw. Most of the time, she did it with her bare hands. It wasn't a bad thing – after all, Nords _were_ the muscle behind most of the human armies of Tamriel, but such brash strength just wasn't necessary now that she had joined the ranks of the Garkains.

In truth, he was rather impressed that she'd adjusted to her newfound strength and speed so soon; it was just annoying that she'd destroy _everything_ , so the older vampire would never be able to enjoy interrogating a prisoner. What irked him even more was the fact that the remains, even if they were reanimated with necromancy, would not be able to answer Corinnor's questions.

The Imperial vampire trudged over to his accomplice and knelt down next to her, slinging his bow over his shoulder.

"You know, Alinna, sometimes I get... concerned about you." Corinnor said to his disciple in a flat voice, picking his words carefully. The woman turned to face him, a quizzical eyebrow already climbing up her forehead.

"What do you mean, master?" She asked with a hint of a chuckle behind her deceptively innocent voice.

"You know that the return of Lord Khagemar is important to us, yes?"

She nodded.

"It's just… next time we come across a group of Stendarr Vigilant's, I want you to leave at least _one_ of them alive for me. After all, how else are we to gather information about the location of the Oathkeepers?" Corinnor asked his associate.

Again, she nodded, apologising and saying that she'd try to restrain herself. Corinnor patted Alinna on the back and stood up, scanning the winding road before them as he did so.

"Come," he said, his voice serious now, "We're wasting time. Dawn will be here soon. We must complete our work, or else."

Alinna shuddered beneath her armour, not because of the cold. Vampires did not feel such things, but because she knew that, should the pair of them return to their superiors with nothing to show for their efforts, there would grave consequences indeed and their places among Khagemar's chosen disciples would be put at risk when he rose to reshape the world in his image.

Such was the promise of their Prophet.

 **VIIIIIV**

 _ **The next day...**_

 **VIIIIIV**

The night was dark, the moons waning and reflecting very little light, though even that was hard to see through the thick pines above. Luther walked almost leisurely as he made his way down the road, slowly looking around to watch for anything out of the ordinary. His destination was an old fort nearby, said to be overrun by bandits who were killing anything that strayed too close. Corpses would be found days later, their supplies intact and their purses untouched.

Naturally, Luther and Hush had deduced that it was a likely camp for the Garkains to settle. No bandit worth his mettle would leave a corpse with their Septims. The dead have no use for riches, after all.

A sudden cry from a hawk in the trees above caught his attention. The vampire slowed to a sudden stop, his hand tightening around the dagger he kept on his person. He was silent, taking slow, deep breaths and listening for any sign of movement in the brush around him. It was too calm.

But then he saw it, on the other side of the road, crouched amongst the foliage. An Orc, clad in Bandit furs, gripping the hilt of an iron sword. A sick look of grim satisfaction grew on his face as he neared Luther, doing his utmost to stay out of the vampire's sight. And he likely would've succeeded, had the vampire not been blessed with a supernatural sense of smell or sight.

 _Crack!_

An arrow whistled through the air, sinking through the Bandit's shin, splintering the bone. Immediately, the would-be attacker howled in agony and toppled onto the road, just in front of the vampire. For a brief moment, the vampire got a look at the snarling Bandit who now gripped his injured knee before him on the road.

"Not a bad shot." He stated in a low tone, moving to stand over the Orc. An armoured boot pressed against his shoulder, forcing him to look up, while the spearhead was also pressed under his chin. "Where are your masters camped? The fort?"

The Bandit growled, responding by spitting at his feet.

Hush emerged from the undergrowth, his bow at the ready. He smirked in gloomy satisfaction. Luther had told him that the Garkain's might have their thralls patrolling the roads posing as Bandits, and the Khajiit had agreed that incapacitating one may provide them some answers before they arrived at the camp.

"Careful, Cold One. This one knows there will be more soon. Ask your questions quickly." Hush informed the vampire as he approached.

Scowling, Luther dropped the Orc's shoulder and stepped back, his gaze scanning the treeline before looking at his Khajiit companion.

"You are more than likely right. And his yelling probably told his friends exactly where we are." He turned to Hush. "I'd prepare for a fight if I were you."

Within seconds, sooner than Hush would have thought, Thrall's came sprinting up the road, less than two-hundred feet away. Hush smelt them before he saw them, their stench clearly drawing attention to the fact that none of them had bathed in a long while.

But, when they began their charge, they came with a fury only a desperate and bloodthirsty bandit could. Eyes locked onto the pair with bloodshot rage, white-knuckled hands gripping their war-axes and swords with an iron grasp and the cry of a group of men with a unified purpose - death.

But Hush was not afraid of them; he had faced far worse than a band of the dozen or so Bandits that were running at them now. He wouldn't run, he wouldn't retreat.

In answer to the vampire's statement about him readying for the fight, he merely smirked and drew another arrow from his quiver, knocking it on his Dwarven Bow. He took a brief moment to aim at the first Bandit, a Nord, bellowing a cry of defiance and inhaled sharply before letting the arrow fly.

It impacted in the man's throat, and his hands immediately went to the wound, trying in futility to stem the flow of crimson blood. He gurgled on the fluid, before lying down to die. But Hush had already let fly another arrow at another Bandit before he hit the ground.

By the time the Bandits were within close-quarter fighting distance, Hush had already killed four of them, and mortally wounded two. Slinging his bow, he drew his trusty Steel Sword and readied himself for the fight ahead as the Bandits circled the duo.

Hush allowed himself to take the briefest of moments to look at the vampire on his flank, jaw clenched and determined at the impending battle. Hush was hardly given a chance to prepare as a Breton clutching a Steel War Axe and a Hide Shield ran at him with bloodlust in his eyes.

Luther's lips pulled into a snarl of his own. He hadn't expected the Garkain's to have enthralled so many, as vampires rarely left more than six mortals alive to serve them in their charmed state. From behind the Breton, a Nord came sprinting past him, roaring his own challenge. He had a leaner build than most of his kin, but he was still notably larger than the vampire. Still, Luther braced himself, letting the Bandit come to him. On his approach, he raised his mace only to have the smaller man rush at him with supernatural speed, leading with his dagger.

Luther was quickly under his reach and dangerously close for the both of them. The unexpected action caught the man off-guard, and Luther took the chance he had made, slicing the man's throat in a blur of motion. Immediately, the scent of blood rushed into his nostrils, and his thoughts clouded as a need to drink his fill took over. It took everything Luther had to shake the thought away as the next Bandit rushed towards him, eyes wide and desperate for the thrill of a kill.

A thoughtless mistake.

Once he was down, Luther shook the blood from his weapon before facing the rest. They were fast approaching, ready to avenge their fallen comrades.

"Never should have come here!" One of the Bandits bellowed as a small group of three approached the Khajiit. Their swords glinted meanly in the moonlit night.

Hush let out a cry as he lunged at a nearby High Elf. The quick approach caught him by surprise, and Hush's own sword slid easily through his unprotected stomach. As the man died, Hush briefly wondered what sense there was in only wearing fur armour on your shoulders and legs, but not your abdomen.

 _Fool._

As Hush stepped back from the man to retract his blade from the dying Elf's stomach, a flash of pain erupted on his back. He cried out in agony, as he felt his fur singe and his flesh burn. He whipped around to see a Dark Elf with a sick grin on his face, pleased with his small victory over the monster-slayer.

In his right hand, the Elf held an Iron Sword that seemed to glow with a dull red tinge. An enchantment, Hush realised, and if the burning pain in his back was anything to go by, it must have been a fire or flame binding in the weapon.

Trying to ignore the tremendous burning in his upper back, Hush swung wildly at the Dark Elf, his sword missing the Mer's throat by inches. The Elf back-pedalled, and another Bandit took a chance to rush Hush in hopes of finishing him off.

"You'll make a fine rug, cat!" He shouted, losing his element of surprise.

Taking advantage of the Bandit's blunder, the Khajiit spun to face the oncoming adversary and feinted right. His lure worked, just about. Hush's sword slid through the Bandit's shoulder, shattering bone, but his opponent's mace swung too far left and caught Hush's upper right arm. The bone fractured and the damage done, Hush could no longer hold his sword aloft, and switched to use his weaker left arm to fight.

He looked over to the vampire – a monster. He managed to catch his eyes, and attempted to shout a desperate plea for his aid.

"Luther, this one needs h-"

But he was cut short when the Dark Elf with the enchanted sword came at him again, a punch knocking him to the ground.

 **III**

As the Nord and Dunmer ran to face the Khajiit, another pair of Bandits chose to flank both sides of the Higher Vampire. One was a lightly armoured Imperial while the other had on heavier armour, his features obscured by a helm that covered much of his face. The remaining couple of bandits, including another Bosmer with a bow of her own, decided to hang back, waiting for a more opportune time to strike should they have to.

Luther stood his ground, his blade held in a defensive position and his feet ready to move once one of them made to attack. And after a few long seconds, the larger of the two Bandits, the heavily armored one, took a lunge at him, raising his Greatsword in an attempt to swing it down on him. But Luther was ready, easily leaping out of the way. The other attacker tried to take him by surprise once he had moved, but Luther managed to catch blades with him. They parried for a few strikes before the other returned, forcing Luther to dodge again and start the cycle over.

When he moved to dodge again, Luther moved as quickly as his heightened vampiric powers would allow, barely missing a swing from the Imperial's broadsword. The vampire stopped somewhat behind the larger bandit, striking him behind the knees. It was not a mortal wound, but that was far from the point. The man went down with a cry, rendered unable to stand properly.

Before Luther could raise his blade again to finish his opponent off, the Imperial gave a loud shout of his own and moved to charge him. This time, however, as Luther turned to face him, his free hand went to the back of his belt where he kept his rarely-used throwing knives. It was a bit of a gamble, but it was one that paid off, because at the close range the Imperial did not see the knife before it was buried in his shoulder. Again, not an immediately lethal move, but as he stumbled, the vampire was able to recover fully and run his blade through his adversary's chest, finishing him off. He then returned to the other wounded bandit, finding an opening in his armour and putting him out of his misery as well.

Luther glanced over at the Khajiit then, only to catch his eyes and see his own situation just before he gave his plea and went down. Growling, he leapt over the fallen Bandit's body before he noticed another attacker running at them while a third behind him aimed a bow at the pair.

Luther swore, a red mist immediately enveloped him and Luther dropped his dagger, his fingernails extending into razor-sharp talons. The Thrall's didn't even see him coming as Luther sprang between the three attackers, slicing their throats as he sprinted around like a tornado, leaving a trail of red mist and sprays of fresh blood in his wake.

Standing in front of the fallen Khajiit, he faced the remaining four Bandits, who appeared to be taking more precautions now that they knew what their opponents were capable of.

"Are you alright, my friend?" Luther asked Hush, more to see if he would respond at all than looking for anything specific.

The Khajiit hissed in pain, the burning sensation still painful on his back. He drew himself up, a throbbing in his head making itself known as he did so. Hush briefly put a finger up the area where the throbbing hurt the most, and it came away caked in his blood.

He growled in annoyance and pain. But he had little time to complain further as the remaining Bandits came towards the pair. The Higher Vampire had stepped in front of Hush, giving him a moment to collect himself before he would have to launch back in to the fray.

"This one will be fine. But we must finish this quickly. Khajiit can feel himself losing strength, Cold One." He told the monster.

It was the truth. If he went down again, there was no assurance that he would get back up again. He put away his sword, and unslung his Dwarven Bow once more. The remaining Bandits were indeed being much more wary now, studying the Khajiit and vampire with cruel eyes. They'd seen what the latter could do, and it must have terrified them.

Nocking an arrow, Hush quietly muttered a curse as he realised how few of the projectiles remained. Eight, including the one mounted on the bow now.

Eyeing the remaining four, Hush spoke to the monster in a quiet tone.

"This one will take the two on the left, and you, the two on the right. Fair?" He spoke.

Hush exhaled as he squinted and drew the bowstring up to his cheek, aiming at a Nord with war paint masking his face. Trying to ignore the pain the action caused his burning back, he released the taut string, watching as the arrow sailed into the Bandit's chest - felling him in moments.

Luther nodded in quick affirmation. "Fair."

The very next second, he moved to confront the remaining bandits. The Nord felled by Hush's arrow crashed to the ground while the one beside him moved out of the way, joining the others. There was a momentary standoff as the three seemed to consider their options, and Luther waited to see what they would do.

He saw his job at this point as keeping their attention on him rather than on the injured Khajiit. If he was given an opportunity, he could take out one or two without much difficulty. His energy had been all but used up turning himself into his mist-form, and he could feel fatigue ebbing away at his limbs.

He saw his chance as the one closest to Hush made a move to charge at him before he could nock another arrow. But Luther was quick to stop him, nearly catching him with his blade and forcing him to focus his attention on his gaunt pale form. The three Bandits were now surrounding the vampire, moving slowly to flank him. It was becoming more complicated now, and he hoped that if the Khajiit chose to shoot now, that his aim would stay true, even with his injury.

Wasting as little time as he could, Luther was the one to make the first strike, though it was more to incite the other Bandits to begin moving as well. He swung at the bandit to his left, forcing him to dodge, and the one to his right made his own move. But Luther quickly retaliated by bringing a fist swiftly into his jaw, catching the lightly armored Elf completely by surprise. As he stumbled back, one of the other two attempted to strike as well, forcing Luther to turn his attention away from the Elf before he could attack again.

He parried between the two for a moment, before finally finding an opening to charge at the dazed Bandit one last time. He tried to block, but quickly gained the upper hand, finding an opening in his armour in order to run him through with a dagger.

It had been a messy fight so far, but now there were only two left. Luther kept both of them at a distance, occasionally parrying strikes, while waiting for the Khajiit to make one last shot. And once he did, he could charge at the last one, mercilessly striking until he found an opening to make a quick end to the fight.

Seeing his chance, Hush took only a brief second to relax his burning back as he reached for another arrow. Only three left. He inwardly cursed for not bringing more. But that concern would have to wait.

His muscles burning with the effort of the fight, as well as the agonising pain he felt in his back, the Khajiit did his best to pull an arrow taut up to his cheek as he aimed at another Bandit – an Imperial woman. He narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth as he pulled his bowstring as far back as his injured state would allow, and let it fly.

The projectile whistled and sank into the Elf's chest with a solid 'thunk', making him cry out in pain as he toppled backwards, blood spurting from the wound in a cascade of gore. Now, only the last Bandit remained, but Hush had faith that the vampire would have little trouble finishing the skirmish.

He knew he wouldn't be needed. The Cold One knew how to handle himself in a fight. His body language showed it - his posture, firm but relaxed, ready to dodge an incoming strike or send out an attack of his own. His feet bounced as he advanced on the last Bandit. Clearly, he was a disciplined warrior, a seasoned one too, more than likely. He'd obviously had training at some point in his long life, that much was evident, but the question remained - who had trained him to be so capable?

Rather than steal the glory and take the final kill, Hush instead decided to watch as the last Bandit let out a loud war cry as he charged the vampire, knowing it would be his final mistake.

Quickly dispatching of the Bandit, the vampire stepped back, taking only a second to catch his breath before looking around one last time. His gaze focused on the treeline, looking for any sign of movement in the shadows. Fortunately, it seemed that it was over. If there were any that survived, Luther could not detect them, even with his heightened senses. Once the vampire was certain that they were safe, he turned back to the Khajiit, moving closer.

"Are you alright?" He asked, breathless as his body tried to recover from the sudden fight. He was hesitant to touch Hush, in case he was in pain or simply would not appreciate it. His keen vampiric eyes occasionally turned away to continually watch around them, just in case, but his focus was mostly on the monster-slayer. "I saw you go down earlier. Where is the wound? How bad is it?"

Hush groaned as he struggled to hold himself aloft on his unsteady legs. He felt so weak. He grimaced visibly from the pain and leant against the trunk of a nearby tree. He produced a small vial of healing liquid from a satchel and uncorked the bottle, drinking the contents in one go.

Hush hissed as he felt the burning liquid fill his body, seemingly making his blood boil before quickly fading away. His temple still throbbed, and the burn on his back would add a nice new scar to his collection, but other than that he was fine. The pain in his right arm from the blow the mace had dealt was all but gone now.

"Bearable for now, but this one will not last long without potions. We should hurry." Hush insisted, the vampire nodding in return.

 **VIIIIIV**

Less than an hour later, after stripping the bodies of any useful potions, Septims or arrows, the pair of unlikely companions neared the abandoned and derelict fort that the Bandits had been guarding. The Higher Vampire was certain it was the Garkain's camp, given the unusually high amount of Thralls.

Hush had agreed, and the pair drew closer to the stone walls of the old abandoned fort. He didn't like having to deal with an extra person on a mission like this, especially a monster, but even he had to admit that a second set of eyes would give him a chance to allow his back some reprieve. In truth, the Khajiit still wasn't certain if he wanted to risk his life hunting vampires on a contract that could all be a convoluted lie.

For all he knew, this might have been a pointless effort. Khagemar might not even exist.

Luther motioned for Hush to join him against the fort's walls. Then, he crouched down, his profile as low and concealed as he could manage.

"Keep an eye out for openings in the walls." The vampire said quietly, his voice all but inaudible, masked by the sound of crickets and owl hoots around them.

Instead of replying, Hush simply nodded, his stoic and quiet attitude wiped away - replaced by a mask of concentration on the task at hand. This was just like one of his more questionable thieving jobs that he was assigned from time to time, Hush thought to himself as he shadowed Luther's movements about a metre behind him. The first step would be to check the perimeter for weak points, allowing entry and exit from the premises.

The next step was to get an idea of internal security, and Hush suspected that these 'Garkains', as they called themselves, were well-stocked with able-bodied men armed to the teeth, not to mention their supernatural powers. Hush would prefer to avoid a fight as too many fatalities would draw attention, and the ruse would be spoiled. But once inside, the only thing left to do was retrieve their prize, whatever that may be.

In this case, Hush suspected that Luther would wish to discover the Garkain's plans and how close they were to finding where Khagemar was being held, or something along those lines.

His sensitive feline ears picked up the sound of soft running water around the corner, and he tapped the vampire on the shoulder, raising a finger to his lips. He motioned with his hands to move slowly and peek around the corner carefully.

"This one suspects a drain of some kind around the corner, beware of guards." He warned, removing his sword from his sheathe.

"Keep your eyes up and watch our backs, my friend. There's no going back now."

Hush didn't even manage to whisper another word before the vampire scurried away into the derelict drain that still dripped with stagnant water from what must have been years upon years of being used. The Khajiit muttered a curse under his breath, swearing to himself that this was the dumbest thing he'd ever done in his life.

Hush crept after Luther, his feline eyes narrowed, using his natural night vision to locate the drain. He followed the Cold One's lead, and crawled after him through the broken iron bars, contorting his body into unnatural positions just to squeeze through. He almost made it, but his quiver was too large to allow him to slip into the small tunnel. With a low groan, Hush removed the piece from his back, along with his beloved bow, and hid them beneath a boulder just outside the drain.

He kept his sword and throwing knives though, the Khajiit would likely need those if this mission went pear-shaped.

He knew that nobody would find his bow there, and he doubted his marksmanship skills would be very handy in the enclosed corridors of the fort. So with a sigh, Hush began to crawl after Luther down the sewer tunnel, gagging slightly at the terrible stench that his sensitive sense of smell was assaulted by. Regardless, he pressed on, and soon found himself behind Luther, laying still, his own pale body positioned in a similar manner to his, belly down and ready to crawl further up the drain. The vampire had stopped, and had cast his gaze upward.

The Khajiit looked up, seeing a grating in the ceiling of the tunnel, light from a torch sconce streaming through the gaps in the bars. Hush jerked a thumb up at the grating, an eyebrow raised in question.

"I think we found our way in, Cold One." Hush surmised. "What now?"

"A moment, please." Luther murmured in response, without looking at Hush.

To Hush's astonishment, Luther simply seemed to dissipate into a red-black mist thicker than any natural fog. His body completely transformed into the supernatural smoke, the mist seeped between the gaps of the grating of its own volition. Soon the entirety of the mist had passed impossibly through the small opening, and returned to its previous vampiric form.

Luther cracked his neck and stretched, exhaling deeply as if from a great strain. Hush rose some from his lowered position, peering through the grate. He remained perfectly still for a moment, watching as the vampire bent down and pulled on the corners of the grating,

It came away from the floor with a loud clanging that echoed down the corridor. Hush winced at the sound, but Luther seemed indifferent.

"Do not worry, friend. I doubt a vampire would think noises like these to be out of the ordinary in a fort that is slowly turning into a pile of rubble." Luther promised, offering a hand to Hush to help him out of the newly made hole in the floor.

Hush hummed his sceptical agreement, but said nothing to challenge the immortal.

"Your mist form." Hush began.

"What of it?" Luther asked, a wry smile on his thin face.

"Ever consider becoming a burglar? Trick like that would come in awful handy." The Khajiit explained. Lockpicks and patrolling guards could make life very difficult for a normal thief.

"I considered it briefly, but ultimately concluded it would be terribly dull." Luther replied monotonously.

Hush took the offered hand and hauled himself out of the sewage drain. As the two got their bearings, Hush took the moment to glance around them. The room was lit by a single torch on the wall near a doorway, the flaring light spilling into a dark hallway beyond. Around them were stacks of both crates and barrels, and the smell of alcohol was strong, though it was preferable to that of the foul air they were just in. After a moment, Hush moved slowly towards the door, holding a blade in his other hand. He paused, holding a hand up to tell Luther to stay quiet, and then listened. No voices, yet. The coast seemed clear for now.

"Remember, Cold One, we have no idea how the fort is laid out or where anyone is. We have to be careful from here on out, yes?" Hush asked.

Luther nodded in response, but his face seemed distracted. The vampire took a long sniff of the air, a loud inhale that seemed almost perverted to the Khajiit, but the monster-slayer said nothing.

"Do you smell that?" Luther asked, his face a mixture of disgust and intrigue.

Hush sniffed quietly, hoping his feline senses would be as sharp as the monsters. All he could detect was the stink of urine and alcohol, as well as some other fainter odour. The smell of death. But in a place like this, that shouldn't have been a cause for Luther's concern.

"No." He whispered. "What is it?"

Luther shrugged. "I'm not sure yet, but it seems... wrong somehow."

Hush 'tsked' at his less than helpful description; instead looking around at the cellar he was in. It was a relatively small room, with a staircase at one end that winded upwards into the building. He supposed he wouldn't have to worry about what was up there. After all, if his vampire companion was anything; he was tough, and he was deadly. One of the best fighters he'd seen in a long time.

On the other end of the cellar, there was a door. Whereas the rest of the fort was crumbling and decrepit, this door looked new. It was made of some kind of metal, and had several locks on it, warding off intruders.

At the sight of the barrier, Hush's ears pricked up and a devious smile danced on his feline features. This was an old fort after all, and he silently wondered what riches or gear could be hidden within that warranted such protection from outsiders. He chuckled with excitement as he strolled up to the door, raising a lockpick into the first keyhole of three.

It took him a while, but after much deliberation and at least ten broken picks, Hush finally managed to unlock all three of the locks, and the door let out an audible clunk. He Khajiit winced at the sudden noise, but looked around to see Luther had seemed unfazed by the noise, and Hush took this as a sign that it was safe to continue. He smiled in victory and no small amount of satisfaction as he stood up and opened the door.

The sight that greeted him was very different to the one he'd been expecting. The room was nearly bare, but it was slightly bigger than he'd imagined. There was a chest, but it only contained a piece of an Ancient Nordic Axe. It was a grey colour, an inscription on one of its sides saying _'Wuuthr_ -' before being cut off by the jagged end of the piece. Hush hummed in mild disappointment as he pocketed it. Perhaps a scholar would like to get their hands on it, he couldn't be sure.

He looked around the room and saw a table at the far end, a map unrolled on its surface. There was also a small stack of books on the table too, and Hush looked at the title - _'The Spawn of Molag Bal'_ and _'Immortal Blood'_. Hush shrugged nonchalantly, hardly surprised that a group of vampires would indulge in literature detailing their kind. There were drawings and notes nailed to the wall above the table, but Hush barely noticed them, his gaze captured by an unrolled map on the table instead.

He leant over the table and studied what was marked on it. Someone had circled the village of Riverwood, writing a note next to it, it simply read 'Potential Oathkeeper'. Hush narrowed his eyes in confusion and continued to peruse the map. There were several other points of interest marked on the map, each highlighted for different things, it seemed. One read; _'Hall of Vigilants'_ , another to the far north-west; _'Volkihar Clan – keep away'._ The scribbles meant very little to him, but one in particular did catch his eye.

' _Potential Key Location_ '.

"It's a map." Hush breathed out. "Luther!" He called, the vampire instantly appearing by his side. Hush pointed to the spot he'd been attracted to. "They know something about how to free Khagemar, they must. Clearly they are hunting for a key of some kind, yes? Perhaps to unlock Khagemar's prison?"

Luther hummed, nodding his head slowly. "I agree. This is a good start, but we need to know more. We need it from a Garkain."

Hush nodded, then quickly rolled up the map and pocketed the book, placing the items and the etchings of the various points of interest into his pouches on his armour. With great care, he turned and stalked out of the room, making his way as quickly and as quietly as he could further into the fort. Luther shadowed his every move, his footsteps eerily silent on the stone floor.

As the duo crept along the winding, decrepit hallways, Hush began to realise more and more that he didn't like the enclosed spaces and hallways of the fort. Mostly because it didn't allow for good sneaking. If someone were to walk and happen upon the pair, there would be nowhere to go before they would be seen. Thankfully, the fort was poorly lit, and they were able to move quickly. Eventually, Hush could hear the sound of low voices coming from one of the rooms ahead, and Luther smiled, clearly anticipating a kill.

 _He may not drink blood, but he's a still a vampire. He still thirsts for violence._

In this new hall, however, Hush became aware of another scent. It was faint, but it was without a doubt that of a werebeast. He'd hunted enough lycanthropes to know the intermingling of man and monster, and though he couldn't be certain, there seemed to be the iron scent of spelled blood and stink of wet fur invaded his nostrils.

"Nothing is ever simple." He muttered under his breath, turning away from the stairwell.

The Khajiit nearly gagged from the feral stench of the creature down the stairs, he was not here to hunt the beast, and they simply didn't have time to put the creature out of its misery.

"What is that?" He asked the Cold One. "What's going on?"

Luther glanced in the direction of the beast's noises, then turned back to Hush, shaking his head. "Trust me when I say that what is going on here is something you do not want to see, and let's leave it at that for now."

Hush felt his jaw clench at the vampire withholding information from him, but he said nothing for now. This was exactly why he preferred to work alone. That way, he couldn't keep secrets from himself. Maybe Luther would start being more honest to him eventually, but clearly there were more pressing issues at that moment.

Hush slowly poked his head out into the main hall. The voices were somewhere nearby, but the longer they stayed the more dangerous it was going to be. He tried his best to block out the sounds of the pained lycanthrope beyond the stairs in order to listen down the hall. Voices continued to drift from a room further down, just as before, all of them still relaxed and casual.

"Yeah, yeah, I can hear it now. I'll go check on the damn thing. The beast's blood has got one hell of a kick to it, don't you think?" One of the occupants said, footsteps following the words.

Hush cursed under his breath, grabbing Luther by the arm and encouraging him to press against the shadowy wall with him. A large, burly figure emerged from a doorway further behind them, no doubt where all the voices were coming from. He lumbered in their direction for a few seconds, then stopped. At this point, there was nowhere to go without him seeing them move.

There was another second or two of hesitation before he started to take more steps towards them.

"Oi, what are you two doing? The boss don't like nobody goin' down in the cellar without— _gah!"_

A throwing knife embedded itself into the man's neck, blood poured from the wound as he sank to his knees, hands clutching at the weapon. Luther's dagger was buried into the base of his neck before he could cry out.

The voices at the other end of the hall had become hushed, no doubt alerted by the noise. Luther pulled the dagger from the corpse, giving Hush a single glance of grim determination.

"Better decide if you want to sit this one out or not. It seems that we're in for at least one fight in here." Without another word, he dissipated into his mist-form and rocketed down the hallway and towards the voices.

Hush said nothing, opting to follow the vampire's lead as he snuck closer to the voices. The Khajiit could already make out the panicked screaming and clashing steel, and growled softly upon seeing the source of the voices.

Three men, clad head-to-toe in furs and Iron Armour, but the fur carried a strange odour to it. Almost bestial, but it was mixed with the scents of men. Hush didn't get enough time to think about it, seeing Luther dashing and twirling between them, fangs bared and dagger flashing, spilling torrents of blood.

As soon as he was in range, Hush raised one of his throwing knives, aiming it at the exposed flesh of one of Luther's adversaries. The blade cut through the air as the Khajiit threw it, spinning in a deadly arc to lodge deep into the man's throat with a soft thunk.

He yelped in surprise, and his two companions were far too preoccupied with fighting Luther to notice the injury. To Hush's surprise, the man barely slowed down as he frantically looked around for whoever had thrown the knife. But when his eyes finally settled on the Khajiit, he knew why.

The man's eyes were a deep crimson, like pits of lava in his skull. Fangs protruded from his top lip, and he let out a guttural screech as he yanked the blade from his throat, the wound only seeming to annoy him.

 _Another vampire._

Hush raised his fists and lowered his elbows into a fighting stance, a blade at the ready. He snarled at the Garkain, he was ready for this fight. Before Hush could make it through to the doorway, the vampire had leapt over to Hush with inhuman speed, a fist connecting to his sternum, winding him as the Khajiit was thrown across the room. He gasped for air, hoping that any broken ribs would not have pierced his lungs.

The Garkain closed the distance between them again, and the vampire took a swing at Hush with an iron sword, but he rolled away, dodging the slash by a hair. The Khajiit got to his feet as fast as he could manage; his own sword at the ready.

Less than a second passed before the vampire charged at him once more, Hush dodged the blade, taking a number of steps to the side in order to stay a safe distance away from his blade, but he was on the back-foot, always on the defensive. He'd have to bide his time and wait for an opening. The monster-slayer was given little time to do so, as the vampire launched a savage overhead strike at the Khajiit, which Hush managed to block mere moments before it would have split his skull.

The force of the strike was massive, and Hush's already injured arm could not withstand the force of the strike, and he dropped his sword, the steel clattering to the ground beneath him.

Hush swore as the vampire laughed, pressing the advantage. Now he was facing an armed opponent without a weapon of his own. He grabbed the nearest object he could: a broom, and used it to block some of the vampire's faster hits, but he was being rapidly backed into a corner.

Before he could come up with a plan, the sword blade sunk deep enough into the broom's handle that the Vampire could physically rip it from his grip. In the moment it gave, though, he made a dash for the nearby cupboard, hoping to find something in there. Upon reaching it, however, he felt the blade cut across the bare part of his arm. He clutched the spot with his other hand, turning to face the vampire again. This time, instead of trying to defend himself, he raised his hand in a fist and charged before the monster was ready, socking the vampire in the jaw. Hard.

The Garkain staggered backwards, momentarily stunned. But instead of attempting to hit the vampire again, Hush snatched a dagger from the vampire's belt and responded by raising the blade and burying it into his eye. The Garkain screamed in agony and Hush used the opportunity he'd made for himself, stabbing wildly at his face. He roared in fury and pain, stumbling to the ground, holding his hands to his face as the dozens of wounds on his face and neck started to bleed profusely. Before the Khajiit's dagger could find its way into the vampire's heart, finishing him off, Hush heard Luther calling out for him.

Hush staggered backwards, gobbing out a wad of blood and saliva as he spat onto the floor and wiped his mouth with his thumb, looking at the crimson liquid with a small smirk. It had been too long since he'd had a proper brawl. Too long since he and a contractor had had a true dispute over the coin he had earned from a job, settling it with the strength of their knuckles.

"Hush, I require your assistance!" Luther called again, snapping the Khajiit back to reality. He rushed away from the wailing Garkain and into the room where Luther had been fighting two others alone.

He had little time to think, as another opponent came at him as soon as he entered the larger area, launching a wild swing from his right hand. Hush quickly stood and deftly blocked the blow with his left forearm, his leather armour softening the blow. He returned his opponent's blow with a jab of his own, landing a fist squarely on the man's solar plexus, causing him to double over, winded momentarily.

But a moment was all Hush needed, as the monster-slayer brought his knee up to the man's face, his blow shattering the cartilage in his nose. He cried out in pain as he came back up to eye-level, his face screwed up, a hand clutching his broken and bloody nose.

"You son of a bitch!" The Nord bellowed.

The Khajiit smiled, clicking his tongue as he winked at the man, who glared at him with all-too-obvious fury, lunging at Hush again.

A reckless charge was what he had been hoping for, as he grabbed the pouncing man by his wrist, pulling him forward, off-balancing the Nord, whose momentum carried him to floor. As he lay there, trying to get his bearings, Hush drew the dagger he'd stolen from the first vampire, using it's sharp edge to slit his exposed throat in one fell swoop.

The blood sprayed across his face and chest, and as he looked over to see Luther finish off his opponent, he wondered how he'd look to the vampire. Like a crazed psychopath covered in the blood of his enemies? Or perhaps just doing what was necessary to help his comrade?

"What now?" Hush asked, supposing this was far from how the immortal had wanted this endeavour to go.

"Allow me a moment to think." He muttered in response, before pacing the breadth of the room.

"You know," Hush began, drawing the Cold One's attention, "This one managed to subdue a Garkain."

"You _what?_ " Luther rounded on him, eyes flashing dangerously. "Why would you not tell me?"

Hush shrugged. "Khajiit just did."

Luther tutted, then strode through the door and into the hallway where Hush had last seen the Garkain clutching at his bloody face.

"He's gone." Luther called from within the corridor. "He's escaped."

"He cannot have gotten far, Luther. You did not see how bad his injuries were." The Khajiit replied, trying to reassure the vampire. "He will have fled deeper into the fort, yes? Khajiit will give chase."

Luther grunted his impatience and obvious contempt for Hush's oversight, but said nothing as he followed the archer down narrow corridors and closed doors, all whilst following a fresh trail of blood that stank of evil. The further they descended into the fort, the more Hush realised how awful the place truly was. Dried blood and discarded bones littered the rooms and hallways, and inscriptions were written across the walls in what looked like human blood. The writing became more frequent as the blood trail ended; the same words were written over and over again.

' _He Rises'_

Luther was uttering a low, guttural growl the longer they descended, as the stench of death and spilled blood became more and more overpowering, Hush could only imagine what the vampire was going through to keep his primal needs at bay.

They reached the final door, and Hush kicked it open, the stench of death almost overpowering to his sharp feline senses. Then the world around him turned grey, and ceased to spin. The breath froze in his chest, as his eyes widened. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that emerged was a thin rush of air.

"Hush?" Luther spoke. His voice was full of sudden concern, and he hurriedly crossed the corridor towards him.

"What's the-" He trailed off as he looked into room beyond. He was completely silent at what the pair of them were staring at as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Hanging in the centre of the room, suspended from a web of thin white ropes, was a naked mutilated corpse of a teenage girl.

The ropes were looped round her arms and legs and had been tied to the metal beams that filled the ceiling space, hauling her in mid-air. There was a single rope around her neck, pulling her head up and back so she was staring at the door as the two men entered.

Her face was pale and lifeless, eyes wide and bulging, her mouth contorted into a gaping scream of eternal pain and terror. In the centre of the floor, in a heaped mass of red and purple, lay the girls internal organs; they had spilled out of a wide, jagged incision that ran from her neck to her groin.

The knife that had been used to inflict such a tremendous laceration was still lodged in the bone at the base of her throat; reflecting the gentle orange glow cast by the candlelight around the room. The smell bloomed out of the room, filling Hush's nostrils, stronger than ever, but he didn't even notice, he simply couldn't take his eyes away from the stricken, mutilated corpse that had been an innocent young woman.

Hush stepped slowly into the room. Behind him, Luther stood in the doorway, seemingly paralysed; he appeared unable to follow him inside. Hush circled round the hanging corpse, his heart racing in his chest, the contents of his stomach threatening to rise up and explode from his mouth.

 _Too much_ ; he thought. _This is too much. Gods, nobody deserves this._

The smell intensified as he made his way slowly round the body and his eyes began to water from the stench. Still, he ignored it; assuming it was some gas that the girl's body had released, some acid that should have been inside her, rather than pooling on the floor of an abandoned fort.

Clearly, she had been here for days.

He was almost back at the door, when Luther finally moved, his posture suddenly breaking from the apparent paralysis. His body shook, as if spasming from withdrawal symptoms. Hush felt his hackles rise, and his gut instinct screamed at him to run, but the Khajiit ignored these feelings, and placed a hand on the vampires shoulder.

"What's wrong with you? Control yourself, Luther." Hush urgently whispered.

"I... I _can't_..." He growled in a guttural, dangerous tone.

His limbs shook with what Hush could only assume was a great amount of pent-up emotion or power, and the monster hunter became very worried for his safety.

"Luther, tell me what's happening to you, yes?" Hush coaxed. This really wasn't the time or place for such an altercation, and Hush knew that a Garkain might be near enough to hear his trembling.

" _Promise me..._ " Luther sputtered through grunts of what sounded like pure exertion. "Promise me... you _won't_ follow me..."

Suddenly, Luther's eyes burst into a deep crimson, like two hot coals, and stared at Hush with a desperate bloodlust. It was a face that had contorted into pain, and was on the cusp of turning into some feral beast, frantic for blood. No sooner had Luther succumbed, he burst into his smoky red mist form and hurtled back down the corridor the way they'd come.

Hush stared after him, the mutilated girl momentarily forgotten about as he tried to process what had just happened to the immortal. He had ordered Hush not to follow, but the Khajiit already felt like he owed the vampire. Surely, he should run after Luther and find out what was wrong with him?

After a few seconds of thought, Hush shook his head. No. That wasn't part of his contract. Of course, Hush would be at a disadvantage now that the Cold One had retreated, but there was still the question of finding the missing Garkain. And the Khajiit knew it was left to him to find and capture the wounded vampire, and if Hush could discover what he knew about the progress of the Garkain cult in the process – all the better.

Hush exhaled sharply, then made his way past the suspended body and through another door, following the trail of fresh blood as he did so. He didn't have to go far, as he discovered the unmoving body of the Garkain just beyond the entrance, face down to the ground. Hush approached warily and flipped the vampire onto his back, his face still bore the slashes from Hush's dagger, and his clothes were torn and bloody from dragging himself along the ground as he slowly bled to death.

Hush applied two fingers to the immortal's neck, finding a weak pulse there and he sighed with relief.

He doubted the vampire would tell him anything voluntarily, no matter how politely he insisted, so the Khajiit would have to employ more... _questionable_ methods to garner the information he needed to see if it matched the details on the map that he and Luther had found earlier.

Smiling grimly, Hush heaved the Garkain onto his shoulder and shuffled back the way he'd come, past the corpse of the teenage woman and the staircase that stank of lycanthropes and blood.

He needed to hurry, dawn wasn't far off.

Perhaps it was time to let off some steam...

 **VIIIIIV**

Vursan came towards consciousness tasting the bitter iron he had grown so used to craving for his long second life. Like a flash of lightning, before he was even semi-conscious, his fangs slid down and drank reflexively, a habit he had grown so used to, so deep into his muscle memory that Vursan drank and drank until his eyes began to flutter open. The euphoric tastes of the hot, fresh blood that seeped down his throat and rejuvenated him filled him with such ecstasy; he could hardly describe it, even after all these years of yearning for blood. Every time he drank; it felt like his first time all over again.

The wave of disgust, the taboo desire and then the undeniable pleasure...

But suddenly, it was taken away. Torn from Vursan's lips and he growled in anger so fierce that it threatened to overwhelm him. His eyes snapped open, his strength partially returned and he tried to focus on his surroundings. The wind whipped at his hair and face from in front of him, and he focused on the horizon, a gaping hole in the stone and mortar of the abandoned fort. The horizon was one he'd grown used to over the past few months while his group of vampires and thralls had been posted in this fort. It looked out over the east, where the sun would rise, its orange warmth giving precious life to the trees and animals of the world.

He also felt the wind coming through the hole chill him to his bones, and Vursan looked down at himself, and widened his eyes in confusion.

He was as naked as the day he was born, not even a loincloth to hide his dignity. He thrashed, trying to stand, but was surprised when he felt restraints keeping him in place, locked by tight ropes fastening him to a crude wooden chair that was nailed to the ground.

"This one hopes you don't have a taste for high-borns." A voice came from the deep shadows in the very corners in the room.

Immediately, Vursan's eyes snapped to the source and his vampiric eyes quickly picked out the silhouette of a man standing there, leaning casually against the derelict wall. He had no illusion about who it would be. And since he didn't smell the stench of the other vampire, Vursan knew it had to be the Khajiit who had slashed his face.

"And why would that be?" He asked, his voice little more than a growl.

"You just drank three of your own men dry, just to regain consciousness." He hummed. "Perhaps you are not so powerful, yes? And this one doubts you only enthral the upper class bandits, hmm?"

Vursan felt like throwing up. He'd been imbibing the blood of those filthy peasants without even knowing it? Disgusting. Disgraceful.

"Who are you?" Vursan asked, anger boiling in the pit of his stomach.

"Does it matter?" The Khajiit returned. "You have something this one wants, and if you tell Khajiit your secrets – perhaps he will let you live, yes?"

"I will do no such thing, vermin." Vursan spat. "I'll slaughter you where you stand."

"Doubtful." The Khajiit said as he stepped out of the shadows, his arms crossed with a smug smile on his face. "Look over there."

He pointed to the horizon; Vursan followed his finger and stared. Nothing happened. The trees were still the same, leaves blowing gently in the wind, the first rays of the rising sun beginning to peek over the edges of the horizon-

 _Oh, no._

"This one estimates there is perhaps three minutes before the sunrise begins. Khajiit thinks you should choose your words carefully; do not waste time with empty threats, yes?"

"I'm going to kill. Slowly and painfully." Vursan hissed, his stomach boiling with rage. The Khajiit said nothing, waiting for the vampire to tell him what he wanted to know, Vursan believed.

Then the Khajiit punched Vursan across the face. Hard. Much faster than the vampire could have thought too. His jaw exploded in pain, and felt cartilage in his nose crumble as hot blood spurted from his nostrils. He seethed in pain, clenching his teeth to bite back a cry of agony.

"To reiterate; you don't have long to live if you continue to threaten this one. Speak, or die. It is your choice, Cold One."

Vursan clenched his jaw a few times to try and get some feeling back into his face, before nodding, hate burning in his eyes as he flicked his gaze between his interrogator and the steadily rising sun.

"What do you want to know, cat?" Vursan asked.

The Khajiit tutted at the small slur, but seemed to otherwise ignore it.

"You search for Khagemar. Khajiit knows this, but why?" He asked, pacing in front of Vursan slowly.

"Lord Khagemar; he is the Great One. He is pure, and will lead the most worthy of our kind into a new era of domination over mortals." Vursan breathed out, smiling at the thought of the bloodshed he would unleash once Khagemar was released.

"Who says this, hm? Surely not _'the Great One'_. He has been imprisoned for millennia, no?" The mortal asked.

"Our Prophet, and our Lord's most devoted acolyte; Nezera, the Black Fang. She has foreseen it _all_ ; His release, His rise to absolute power and our ascension to godhood." Vursan answered.

The Khajiit said nothing for a long moment.

"And the prison holding Khagemar, where is it? How are you going to unlock it?" He finally asked after a solid minute of stoic silence.

Vursan gulped guiltily, he hated revealing all of his knowledge to the Khajiit, but it was his only chance to avoid the sunrise.

"We do not know. Its location has been lost to the ages. Nobody knows where Cavern Sanguis lies. Only the Keys will show us the way, and they are hidden almost as well as the prison itself."

The Khajiit ceased his pacing, his sudden stillness unnerving to Vursan.

"There is more than one?" He said.

"One _what?"_

"More than one key. You said; _'Keys'_. The map this one found did not suggest there to be more than just one."

"Did I say that? No, you must have misheard me." Vursan quickly sputtered, attempting to rectify his mistake. "A slip of the tongue, perhaps."

The Khajiit shot forward and grabbed the naked vampire by the throat, his hand like the grip of a Giant. The Khajiit hissed with impatience, and lowered his voice to a growl.

"Do not lie to this one, monster." He threatened. "Khajiit alone decides your fate come sunrise. _Remember that._ "

Vursan struggled to breathe beneath his impressive grip, let alone speak. Instead, he nodded fervently. When the mortal released his neck, Vursan coughed as he sucked in desperately for air.

"Now that we understand each other..." The Khajiit began again. "How many are there?"

"Five." Vursan replied instantly, his eyes watching the first orange rays of the sun beginning to peek over the tops of the trees. He had moments to live.

"How many have the Garkains discovered?"

"I don't know!"

"You're lying. Tell me."

"I swear; I'm not. You think Nezera would tell someone like me how many Keys she has recovered?"

The Khajiit hummed - a fair point.

"Who are the Oathkeepers? They were mentioned on the map, what do you know of them?"

"Agents of the ones who imprisoned the Great One in ancient times! They keep the location of the Keys to themselves, and pass it down from generation to generation."

"Who are they?"

"We don't know. It's difficult to discover them. They masquerade as typical mortals, indiscernible from their fellow citizens!"

"That must be irksome, no?" The Khajiit teased. The first rays of sunlight shone down onto Vursan's toes, and he screamed as his skin blistered and boiled on contact with light, the pigment turning an ugly shade of red before turning completely black as it charred and melted away. The sunlight rose steadily higher as more time passed.

"There was a raid on a village!" Vursan shouted, his pitch quivering and in obvious pain. "A few nights ago. Nezera and her most loyal followers attacked Riverwood. There was an Oathkeeper hiding there!"

"That's useless information, Cold One. If Riverwood was already attacked, there's not much this one can do about it now, is there?" He hissed. "Do you know where any other Oathkeepers are located?"

"No!" He howled. "Not for certain. We have heard whispers, of one hiding in Shor's Stone, near Riften. But we don't know if it's true or not!"

"Who else knows?"

"Nobody!" Vursan screamed, his face clenched up in agony. The sunlight had reached his knees now; every inch of skin that burned was more excruciating than the last. "My group was on our way back to the Prophet's hideout when we made camp for the night, then your attacked!"

The Khajiit patted Vursan on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face.

"Thank you, Cold One. You have been very helpful to this one."

He began to walk away and Vursan opened his eyes, shouting for aid as he did so.

"Please, I've told you everything! Let me go! Please; let me live – I beg of you! _Please..._ "

The Khajiit paused for the briefest of moments before he turned to the vampire.

"You have indeed, so what use are you to Khajiit now, hm?" He spat.

"But... but, you promised!" Vursan howled as the rays of light reached his chest, the flesh of his lower body all but ash now.

"No, I did not." He growled. "After all, with your death, there is at least one less monster in the world now. Goodbye, Vursan. Die well."

 **VIIIIIV**

Hush let the vampire begin to sob before he turned for the last time and closed the door behind him as the screams of the Cold One reached a new, terrible pitch of agony. The stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils, and the slow crackling that his sensitive ears picked up as the vampire's skin cracked and burst into flames was haunting.

He descended the stairs and made his way out of the abandoned fort, collecting his bow and other equipment from the drain he'd entered through as he left, listening to Vursan's screams the entire time.

It didn't please him to employ such terrible methods, but he relished in the knowledge that there was at least one fewer monster in the world to worry about now. He'd honestly had no intention of letting the vampire live, whether he'd told Hush anything or not. It was simply useful that he'd given Hush everything he'd asked for and more.

The revelation that there was more than one key to Khagemar's prison was a massive piece of information that he'd been more than surprised by. If the Garkains had been searching, they must have found at least a couple of keys by now. The race was on to find the others first.

He knew what he needed to do. Go to Shor's Stone and chase up any leads he could find about an Oathkeeper residing there. It was imperative that he discovered their whereabouts before the Garkain's did. In a best case scenario, he'd be able to swoop in and collect his first key before he reunited with Luther, who Hush had little doubt would have any trouble finding him. If the ancient vampire had been able to discover him in Falkreath, Hush was fairly sure he could manage it again once he got his bloodlust under control once more.

Worst case scenario; the Garkain's had already found all five and were on the way to free Khagemar at that very moment. But Hush doubted that very much.

After all, if that _were_ the case, he'd be dead very soon anyway. And he wouldn't need to worry about saving the world if he was dead. Hush laughed to himself as Vursan's screams came to a sudden stop.

 _Every cloud has a silver lining, after all._

 **Author's Note:**

 **Reviews:**

 **SuperGreG**

Well, colour me impressed. I found the latest chapter truly engaging. The first half delivered dramatic tension with some artfully provided exposition laying the groundwork of what might be ahead for the Khajiiti monster-slayer. The counterpoint of the lull around the halfway mark led to a powerful delivery in the second half of the chapter. Necessarily brutal and truly engaging. Looking forward to the next installment.

Cheers  
SGI

 **Thank you so much. This truly means a lot to me. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations.**


	5. Chapter IV - The Veteran

**The Keys of Khagemar**

 **Chapter Four – The Veteran**

 _ **Seven days earlier, in Shor's Stone...**_

A short burst of laughter rippled through the gathered neighbours as the Guard Captain recounted his story to the three other occupants of the hut. Captain Hjalmur smiled widely, his bushy black beard pock-marked with small patches of grey.

"So I'm standing there on duty at the watchtower, when a _bear_ suddenly bursts from the trees!" He told them, a devilish smile dancing on his features.

" _Gods..._ " Elicia breathed out, her slender fingers covering her mouth. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. Didn't have to, because the next moment the beast collapsed, stinking of booze. Turns out it had found its way into a Black-Briar Mead storehouse in the forest, and probably thought it was honey – drank as much as it could!"

Derrimus cracked a wide, toothy smile. His one good eye focused entirely on the Nord. He'd heard the story before, but he was enjoying all the same.

"I'd wager it had an awful hangover the next morning, Hjalmur." The Imperial blacksmith replied, his other eye grey and staring into nothingness, as useless as ever. His limited vision was something he'd gotten used to over the years, although it still bothered him from time to time.

"Oh, I'm sure it would have, but Maven found out what had happened, and demanded the bear to be locked up and executed for it!" Hjalmur erupted into another spout of laughter, taking a breath just long enough to add something else. "I bet the boys down in the Riften prison were surprised by the sight of a drunken bear stumbling around in one of their cells, hah!"

The four of them began to laugh again, their meals finished, and their tankards almost empty of the Alto Wine that Hjalmur had brought over especially. It wasn't often that Derrimus was able to have such good company over, but Elicia had convinced him it would be a good idea to try to get more involved with the people of the town.

He briefly cast his gaze over to his wife, and felt love swell in his chest. Her face was full of merriment and joy in that moment, and Derrimus sincerely wished he could capture the image of that expression forever. It was too rare that she smiled these days, always worrying about something – their blacksmith business, the civil war, not to mention the pregnancy.

Such things were never far from Derrimus' mind either, but he knew that such things bothered Elicia much more than was good for her health. Ever since their days in the Imperial Army together, before they had retired for a quieter, simpler life, Derrimus had always tried to plan ahead. But, ever since settling into a civilian lifestyle, he'd been afforded the chance to allow himself to not be consumed by concerns of the future, but to live in the moment a little more too.

Like having friends round for supper.

His mind was snapped away from his thoughts when he heard Hjalmur attracting his attention, calling his name, bringing Derrimus out of his daze.

"Did you hear what I said, Derrimus?" The Nord asked, a few years his senior.

Derrimus shook his head and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, my mind was somewhere else. You have my full attention now though, I assure you."

"It's alright, Derrimus. We were just saying about your time in the Imperial Army before you came here, to Shor's Stone. You've only been here for a few months, but it feels like years already because you've settled in so well."

Derrimus nodded and smiled in agreement.

"What would you like to know? There's a lot to tell, after all." He offered.

"I hear you and Elicia were in the army _together_ , is that right?" Hjalmur probed.

Elicia cast a wary glance to her husband, but Derrimus shook his head, almost imperceptible. He knew she was a more than a little worried that ex-soldiers in such a small community would attract the wrong kind of attention, but Derrimus felt it was almost always better to be honest.

 _Almost._

"In a way, I suppose. We weren't in the same legion, but we met in Cyrodiil." He replied.

"I didn't know that. How did you meet?" Hjalmur pressed.

"Well, I enlisted when I was pretty young. My family has a long history with military life. I wanted to serve my Emperor, just like my father and his father before him." Derrimus clarified. "But I didn't actually _do_ very much while I was a soldier. I got put on guard duty in Cyrodiil a lot of the time to protect politicians and city officials, you know. With the war on, it was a priority for the Empire to have a solid infrastructure when it ended. I helped, I suppose."

It was a well-practiced lie that Derrimus told whenever it as needed and most people were usually satisfied with the answer. In truth, Derrimus' time in the army had been radically different, but the truth about what he did in the name of the Empire would turn most people's stomachs.

"Sounds rather dull, Derrimus. But I bet you're missing the safety of those city walls these days – what, with the Civil War going on."

Derrimus offered a small grin, his single working eye fixing the Nord with genuine mirth, his hand floated over to Elicia's and he grasped it firmly, but in a loving way.

"We both are, but I wouldn't be anywhere else. I'm satisfied as long as Elicia's by my side."

Hjalmur's wife sighed in agreement at that, as if she knew exactly how Derrimus felt. Elicia looked at her husband and smiled slightly, the edges of her lips curling into a small smile of content.

"As lovely as this is, I'm still hungry, who'd like some pie? My wife made some this afternoon. I hope you like Juniper berries, you two." The Nord Captain cut into the comfortable quiet that had settled over the table with an excited growl.

"Oh, Hjalmur – _always_ thinking with your stomach." His wife added. Hjalmur looked incredulous and slightly offended, and murmurs of laughter rippled through the hut once more.

 **VIIIIIV**

The following day, the hours of the day crept onwards into the late afternoon, and many guardsmen fidgeted with impatience, willing the sun to fall faster so they could be done with their day's work and go home to their families or to the Bee and Barb for a hot meal and cold tankard of ale.

But Derrimus was far from done, and although he hadn't gotten any domestic orders for the day, he took the chance to refine his weapon craftsmanship. Forging and tempering blades and armour pieces that needed the dents banged out of them, it was far more gruelling than making nails and horseshoes, but it felt more rewarding.

If any of his pieces saved someone's life down the line, he felt much more satisfied knowing that it was his work that made the difference.

He'd been assigned an apprentice to help around the forge for a few months, and Derrimus had to say, he was absolutely hating it. The boy, Shadr, was about as graceful around his workstation as a drunk mammoth would be. Frankly, he wondered if an elf would be better suited to the work.

Derrimus chuckled at the thought of a Thalmor Agent pounding away at a piece of glowing metal. He could hardly picture an Altmer doing something so 'beneath them', as they would undoubtedly put it.

But his mind soon strayed back to his task. He'd forged the metal the previous day, and beating the steel into shape had taken hours. The annealing process had been even longer. After he'd been satisfied with the shape of the sword, he'd heated it and wrapped the length in a sheet and left it to cool overnight. The following morning, he'd been grinding the edges and point of the sword until it was sharp to the touch, but it was still too soft.

Now, he was in the process of hardening the metal. Heating and quenching the metal in cold water, again and again, until he was satisfied. He wanted it to be strong, but not too brittle. Flexibility was good, but he wanted it to keep the sharp edge.

He'd done this twenty times, and soon he'd have twenty swords, ready to be sold to travelling adventurers or caravan guards. He hadn't received any orders from the Imperial Army to forge weapons or armour in a while, and Derrimus took this as an optimistic sign that they wouldn't need them. Perhaps it was because the war was coming to an end?

Anything was possible.

But, as he worked, his body was moving of its own accord. His movements were completely autonomous, borne completely from habit rather than any purposeful thought. He'd forged thousands of swords before, so he often used this time to ponder.

His mind was on other things, thoughts of his future, of what having a family would be like. But his environment – the heat of the forge that reminded him of his blood boiling, the cool air billowing from the bellows like the breeze on the night winds, the scent of iron that was all-too-similar to the smell of fresh blood after he'd caught his prey – it all brought his past flooding back to him, all the memories that he tried to repress, but never resist.

Just thinking about it made his skin itch. Thoughts of his hunts and deadly delights would alienate any decent person if they ever found out the truth about Derrimus and Elicia. He hadn't realised, but he'd actually started growling slightly when Shadr dropped and armload of iron ore nearby, almost hitting Derrimus' shin.

"Careful, boy!" He barked, but the Redguard was already picking up the spillage and placing the ore into the pile near the smelter. "I'll take any damages out of your wages for the week, understood?"

Shadr nodded, his eyes wide with worry. Derrimus realised his mistake and clasped the young man on the shoulder. Shadr flinched at the sudden touch, but didn't speak.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for." The one-eyed Imperial apologised. "Just take your time with it, there's no rush. You don't need to take all of it in one trip. Don't hurt yourself - _or me_ , for that matter."

Shadr smiled and nodded. "Yes, sir. Sorry about that."

"Come on, then. Hurry up, and I'll give you a few Septims for your first tankard, how about that?" Derrimus chuckled, noticing how his comment had put a spring into Shadr's step.

His attention was brought away from his apprentice as a group of three men approached his smithy. They didn't step onto the premises, and Derrimus shot them a glance. They were all staring expectantly at him, and so the one-eyed Imperial approached them, sharing nods with each before he spoke. He didn't recognise any of them. And new faces were something he didn't like in a quiet town like Shor's Stone.

New faces usually meant trouble.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." He welcomed them, his warm tone as genuine as he could manage. "Care to take a look at my wares?"

One of them, an Argonian with a nasty claw mark on his brow, shook his head, before another replied to his question.

"And to you, smith. But we're not here to buy." The Nord told him.

"Oh?" Derrimus encouraged. "Then what do you want? I'm a busy man, I've got a lot of orders to fill."

"We'd like to put in a custom order. We doubt you'll have the weaponry we want already, so we'd like you to forge us what we want instead."

"A custom order, eh?" Derrimus shrugged. "Let's hear it."

"We're a band of mercenaries, and we specialise in clearing out Ancient Nord ruins. Iron is good, and Steel works against bandits well enough, but what we want is different, more difficult to make. They're more effective at dealing with Draugr."

"I'm listening."

"Silver swords. Ten of them, to be precise. "

"You're joking." Derrimus laughed, a bitter dry sound. But the three men didn't retort.

"Not at all, friend." The Nord replied, some venom in his tone. "We'd like to have them tomorrow."

Derrimus shook his head apologetically, and glanced in Shadr's direction to make sure he was still working. He returned his gaze to the three men.

"Look, that's just not feasible. I'd need, at the very least, a few days." Derrimus told them.

"Why?" The Argonian asked. Derrimus shot him a look, then sighed.

"Silver's a compound metal. I'll have to bind it with steel so it doesn't shatter on impact." The Imperial explained. "That takes longer, and to make ten of them? It adds up. Besides, I've got some pick-axes and woodcutting axes to finish before I can even start on what you're asking me for."

The Nord clenched his fists for a moment, and the Argonian rolled his eyes. The third member of the group, who Derrimus hadn't been paying any particular attention to, eyed him suspiciously.

The blacksmith watched as the third member widened his eyes, ever so slightly.

Derrimus' head instantly spun with questions. What had he seen? What prompted such a small, but important, facial expression?

"Look." Derrimus told them in a firm tone. "I can get them done in two days, and you can pick them up in the evening. Just so you know, since the Silver-Bloods over in Markarth put up their prices on Silver Ore, my price is going to-"

"Payment won't be an issue." The Argonian assured Derrimus.

"Two thousand Septims." Derrimus told them, but none of them even flinched at the steep price. That worried him. Any other traveller would be up in arms about such an appraisal, but the men offered no arguments.

"Like we said; it won't be an issue."

"Good. If you come by the forge in the evening, I can-"

"No." The third member said, a Dark Elf. "We won't be able to do that. Our group will be going into the ruins as soon as the swords are ready."

"I'm not a delivery service." Derrimus told them, already knowing what they would ask.

"We'll pay you an extra seven hundred gold if you can meet us near our camp." The Argonian spoke up.

Derrimus stayed silent. It was hardly an offer he could afford to refuse.

"Fine. Where will I find you?"

"Head West when it's done. The sooner, the better. You'll see us. Our camp is in the first clearing."

Derrimus nodded grimly, then stuck out a hand. But none of them shook it. They just stared at his palm as if it was covered in dog excrement.

"Two days." He agreed.

 **VIIIIIV**

"How was your day?" Elicia asked, cutting off another piece of pheasant breast before taking a few sips of her wine.

Derrimus shrugged.

"Not much to tell." He admitted, attention entirely focused on the plate of hot food on the table. "I still don't know how I feel about having an apprentice, but he has his uses."

"His uses? _Pfft._ " She repeated. "You just mean all the chores you can't be bothered with."

They both chuckled, but Derrimus shook his head.

"And you? What have you been doing while I was busy at the forge?" He asked.

"Curious, are we?" She smiled, meeting his gaze, a pensive smile on her delicate face. "Well, I visited Riften to get some fish for tomorrow's supper, and to catch up with Madesi."

"That old lizard?" Derrimus interrupted, an inquisitive eyebrow raised. "I haven't seen him in months, how is he?"

"He's doing well, although business isn't great for him at the moment." She replied.

Derrimus nodded after taking a long drink from his tankard. The bitter taste of Black-Briar was something he hoped he'd be able to grow accustomed to one day. Maybe if he burned off all his taste-buds with a hot iron...

"I suppose that's down to the war?" He asked.

"Isn't everything?"

Derrimus said nothing, putting another grilled leek onto his fork as he chewed a piece of pheasant.

"That's what Madesi thought too." Elicia continued. "Apparently, the rebels attacked a trade caravan coming from Markarth. It had a shipment of silver ore that he needed desperately for some new amulets."

"Damn Stormcloaks." Derrimus growled, clenching a fist around his fork. "I swear, if I were ten years younger..."

Elicia put a hand on top of his, and his anger dissipated at his wife's gentle touch.

"I know, dear." She said. "But we did our part in the last war. It's not our place to fight. Besides, we have other things to worry about now." Elicia said as she rubbed her slightly rounded stomach.

The pregnancy was in its third month, and her figure was starting to show for it. Although she was still agile around the house, Derrimus knew that she was starting to feel the effects of the chid growing within.

"That reminds me." Derrimus spoke, remembering some of their conversation of the previous night. "You spoke to Maramol at the temple of Mara, didn't you? What did he say?"

She nodded, a hand still on her stomach.

"It's a boy." She beamed, and Derrimus' face lit up.

"That's fantastic." He smiled. "Oh, that's wonderful. A _son_."

"He'll make for a fine young man, I know it."

"Oh?"

"I'll be his mother, after all." Elicia grinned, returning to her meal.

"I can't wait. There's so much we'll do together. Fishing at the docks, forging his first sword, teaching him how to shoot an arrow." Derrimus grinned like a jester in an Emperor's court. "Oh, it's going to be great."

"Don't get too excited. We still have to decide on a name, you know. Have you thought of any, now that we know the gender?" She asked, an eyebrow raised in thought.

"I have actually." Derrimus nodded. "What do you think of- _agh!"_

He cried out, and his hands flew to his head, eyes clenched shut. Elicia was immediately at his side, cradling his fall as he dropped out of his chair and onto the floor.

" _Derrimus!"_ She cried. "Derrimus, are you alright?"

He couldn't answer, he only grunted in pain as his limbs shook and his skin itched like dozens of tiny spiders were crawling all over his body. His blood bloomed with heat and he felt tears well up in the back of his eyes.

"Shh. Hey, it's okay. It's alright." Elicia whispered between his whimpers. "It'll pass, shh." She hushed him gently as she held his head in her lap.

As soon as it had come, the feeling passed and his body stopped shaking. He was only left with a throbbing pain in his arms, and a cold sweat had broken out all over his skin. He opened his eyes slowly, and grimaced at the sensation.

"Are you alright?" His wife asked.

He nodded, and sat up straight.

"I'm sorry; you shouldn't have had to see that." He apologised.

"It's okay, dear. I feel it too. Only a few days now. Then it will be over."

"But not for very long." He added, sounding grim.

She shook her head bitterly, the surface of her eyes shining with barely suppressed tears.

"No, never for very long."

"Will it always be like that?" He asked, nervous of her answer.

"No." She replied, although she didn't sound as sure as she usually did. "It will always hurt in the days before, but it does get easier. You'll learn how to cope with the pain."

Derrimus nodded, and returned to his seat at the table, although he'd completely lost his appetite. For the rest of the night, conversation was sparse, Derrimus' thoughts were elsewhere. He went to bed that night without a word, but barely got more than a few hours sleep. Thoughts were racing through his head too quickly for him to relax and drift off.

 **VIIIIIV**

 _ **Two days later...**_

 **VIIIIIV**

The forest seemed so alive at night. Everything was dark, so his vision was limited, but his other senses made up for the difference. The chirping of nocturnal insects seemed louder, and the moons of Nirn looked massive and ominous through the breaks in the canopy.

Derrimus had finished the last silver sword a little over an hour ago, and had since been waiting for an opportunity to leave his house and meet his clients where they had requested. He would never usually do such a thing, but the promise of so much gold in exchange had swayed even his own suspicions for now. Derrimus still didn't trust them though, which was why he'd brought a steel dagger in his boot just in case things got out of hand.

The swords were wrapped in a sheet of cloth and placed into a large knapsack to help him travel a longer distance. Thankfully, though, Derrimus found the clearing a lot sooner than he thought. The trees overhanging the collection of buckskin tents and camp fires made the open space seem smaller, but its size was deceptive. Easily the length of a Jarls longhouse, and as wide as the wingspan of a dragon.

There were a lot more men than he thought there would be.

The three who had approached him with the order at his smithy had said there were a few more mercenaries back at that camp, but Derrimus hadn't realised just how many there would be.

Twenty men, all armed to the teeth.

Derrimus approached warily, watching the mercenaries with alert eyes and attentive ears. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary. He had to admit that he was surprised that anyone would want to go down into an ancient ruin with nineteen other men. There were strength in numbers, he supposed, but any treasure would have to be split between everyone. Was that how they were planing on paying him? With gold stolen from burial crypts and graveyards? He despised the thought.

He entered the clearing, his eyes flitting between the men and women gathered there; drinking and making merry. It wasn't long before they saw him approaching. The few Khajiit who were there had probably smelled his scent as he approached, but he sincerely hoped they wouldn't detect the massive amount of nervous sweat that was slowly soaking his shirt.

"Well met, friend." The Nord who had approached him a couple of days ago hollered as Derrimus approached, drawing the gaze of all other mercenaries in the area to the Imperial. "I'm glad to see you found us. I hope it was no trouble?"

Derrimus waved away the Nords greeting concerns. As soon as he was within ran paced of the first mercenaries, he dropped the knapsack at his feet. The audible clang of metal reverberated around the clearing.

"Ten swords, just like you asked." Derrimus announced. "Would you like to inspect them?"

The Nord nodded at one of his men, who walked over to the sack, and brought out the cloth-covered swords. Unfurling the swathe of linen, he grinned at the sight of the gently shining weapons. He picked one up and turned to the Nord, who smiled in satisfaction upon seeing the blade.

He whistled and suddenly every single mercenary drew their own swords, war-axes or maces. A few particularly burly warriors wielded massive two-handed greatswords.

"What are you doing?" Derrimus asked, dreading the answer as the mercenaries started to slowly pace towards him.

"Did you really think we'd pay you almost three thousand septims for ten swords?" He laughed menacingly. "That's more than I'll make in a year doing what we do."

"I think we can sort this out like intelligent people, don't you?" He told them. "A lot of time and effort went into those blades, but I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. I want payment."

"I'm not giving you any gold, blacksmith." The Nord spat angrily.

"That's not the kind of payment I meant."

He pulled the knife from his boot and bared his teeth as the first of the mercenaries came at him. The dagger settled in his hand like an old friend, sitting comfortably in his palm. Muscle memory did its work, and he dropped into a ready stance - feet apart, muscles tensed and poised, ready to pounce at a moments notice.

Derrimus waited for the first man to come to him, his eyes full of bloodlust as he dashed at the older Imperial with an opening swing of his mace. Derrimus ducked beneath the swing and brought his own blade up the man's belly, splitting it open. He screamed in pain as his steaming guts spilled out of his stomach, and soon fell to the ground, sobbing as he slowly died.

The second and third man leapt at him with just as much ferocity, yellow teeth bared in ugly snarls. The two-pronged attack was quickly usurped, as Derrimus rolled desperately to his left, avoiding the blows that would have ended him. Without missing a beat, as soon as he was up again, he charged at the duo.

Derrimus' dagger slit one man's throat with a swift, almost surgical, strike. And he quickly followed up his first attack with a second. His fist crashed into the other man's lips, bursting them like a ripe cherry. The man spun to the ground, dazed, and spat out a thick globule of blood with a few white studs pock-marking the crimson.

Derrimus said nothing, but didn't waste any time dispatching the dazed mercenary. He forced the man into the mud with a knee to his back, shoving him deeper into the dirt. He quickly stabbed the back of the man's neck, snapping the spine and an artery in his throat.

The Imperial stood, having barely broke a sweat, almost effortlessly slaughtering the three men – the other mercenaries glanced warily between the blacksmith and their leader, who sneered in disapproval.

"I knew it." The man scorned. "I knew you weren't just a blacksmith. So who are you, really? And what are you doing at the ass-end of the world?"

Derrimus said nothing.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that, huh?" He asked. "Ain't never seen no blacksmith who can dance around my men and murder 'em."

Still, the Imperial said nothing.

"Oh." The leader grinned, raising his eyebrows a little. " _Oh_ , I get it; you were in the Legion, weren't you? The _real_ Legion, from Cyrodiil. Not the Legion here in Skyrim; boy soldiers, claiming to be men of the Emperor's army, most they can do is swing their axes the same way they'd chop wood. But _you_? You know how to fight, don't you? I mean, _really_ fight – cleave a man in two with single swing from your battle-axe, shoot an elf right between the eyes from a hundred paces."

Derrimus stayed where he was, not moving a muscle or speaking a word.

"Such a shame we have to kill you." He grinned in a sick and twisted way.

"I won't be the one who dies here tonight." Derrimus spat.

And with that, he ran, as fast as his legs would carry him. He heard a clamour of voices and angry shouts as the sudden retreat, but he didn't pause to look back. He just knew he had to get as far away from Shor's Stone as he could. He ran through the undergrowth at a breakneck pace, and eventually found a cave. He could still faintly make out the bellow of the mercenaries, and took shelter in the shadows of the cave. He had a plan, and he hoped it would be enough.

Then he felt it.

Like a need, an undeniable desire. It welled up inside him like the need to vomit. He could feel it coming, and every fibre of his being grew hot and agitated. Derrimus' skin was on fire with the need to itch, and he knew he wouldn't be able to push it down this time.

He closed his eyes and began to wail as the change began. The shift was always painful, but he hadn't been like this for long. His thoughts went to his wife, and love filled his heart. The one he treasured above all else, the one who had given this gift to him. He'd wanted it, so badly. He wanted to know, and his curiosity had been rewarded with something he'd never been able to imagine, something that clicked in him. Something that he'd been missing his whole life, but had been somewhere within him all along.

The Beast within.

He screamed at the top of his lungs in agony as he heard his bones crack and mould into new, unfamiliar sizes. His muscles tore themselves apart and knitted back together again, over and over, becoming stronger and denser. The itch on his skin engulfed his body as fur pushed its way out of the follicles of his body, becoming his pelt, his fur – _no_ , his armour.

His face stretched and reshaped itself, his mouth and nose morphed into one, becoming a maw full of gnashing fangs whilst his fingernails extended and sharpened into razor-sharp claws. His screams suddenly died in his throat, just as they reached a new pitch of agony, but not because the pain had ceased, but because his voice had finally broken. The vocal chords in his throat that allowed him to speak snapped and renewed as the Beast's. No words would come from his mouth now. Only feral roars and bone-chilling howls.

He was upon them as soon as he left the shelter of the cave. He leapt at the men, his senses heightened o see in the darkness. He stretched his long powerful legs as he pounced from Nord to Breton, to Argonian and Khajiit. Five were dead, their bodies torn to shreds by his claws, before they reacted to his presence.

Some screamed in terror, but many stood their ground and made to attack him. He could smell their fear. They'd been caught off-guard, and now they were paying the price. Derrimus opened his jaws wide and clamped down on an Elf's bicep, and he quickly increased pressure until he tasted hot blood. The Elf screamed in pain and soon Derrimus had torn the appendage off entirely. The limb tore from the body with a wetting rip and blood sprayed everywhere.

Oh, the _smell_ ; hot, metallic.

He wanted to spill so much _more_.

Gods, he could hardly control himself. The werewolf flung itself at the next man, and pinned him to the ground with its weight, crushing the life from the Redguard as he slashed open his belly and throat with his claws.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp blade slice a long, deep cut all the way down his spine. Derrimus howled in anguish as he jumped away from the now dying Redguard. He turned to look at his attacker – a Dark Elf with a sick smile on his face. The sword he wielded seemed to glow with an inlaid enchantment, leaving the werewolf to wonder how it had cut through his tough hide so easily.

Derrimus glanced at the blade and realised that it was one of his Silver swords, one of the swords that he'd forged earlier that day. To be killed with one's own sword; it was disgraceful, and would make for a poor obituary. Derrimus roared a challenge, a deep-throated bellow that made the Dark Elf drop his smug grin and falter. Then the sword-wielding mercenary actually turned and ran from the Beast.

 _Fool_.

No one could escape a lycanthrope on foot. Derrimus immediately gave chase, following the mercenary into the cave where he had transformed, and threw the Dark Elf against the rock walls inside the dwelling. He could feel his strength fading, his adrenaline gradually declining the longer he held this form, but Derrimus had enough time to knock the Silver sword out of the Elf's hand and clattering to the earth. The Dunmer knew that he was finished, that his chance of surviving was second to none. And Derrimus enjoyed that inevitability as he paced closer to the Elf, his jowls dripping with thick saliva in anticipation of the kill.

Derrimus pounced, and sliced the Dark Elf's belly open from one side to the other in one blow. The Dunmer screamed, begging for mercy. But he would not find any here, in this dark place with a werewolf leering over him.

He watched as the life slowly faded from the mercenaries eyes, watched his pleading stare gradually turning to unseeing glassy orbs. The werewolf howled in victory and turned to leave the cave when his strength finally left him. He slowly returned to his human form, his howls of pain turning in shrieks of gradual agony. The initial shift from man to beast had torn his clothes pieces, and now he knelt – naked, and alone.

But not for long.

The surviving members of the mercenary group stood at the mouth of the cave, sneering down at Derrimus. He could feel himself slipping from consciousness – the sudden transformation had taken so much of his strength and will that he could no longer stand, let alone fight. His eyelids felt heavy and his limbs were like lead-weights as he fell to the ground, only staying conscious long enough to hear the mercenaries say something about an arena, about how they would spare his life so that he could make them a tidy profit skirmishing in some kind of pit-fighting ring.

 **VIIIIIV**

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Reviews:**

 **SuperGreG**

The latest chapter was a really long read. I might've been inclined to cut it into maybe two or three chapters. Even so, it really delivered an engaging sequence of events throughout the sections of bloodied action, tension and unfolding intrigue. Certainly more of a full meal, than a quick snack. The characterisation of those two main protagonists also really holds up well throughout the whole thing. Looking forward to the next chapter.

Cheers,  
SGI

 **Yeah, I was planning to split it up initially into three chapters, but I sat down at one point and talked to a friend who helps me decide what to put into chapters and how much I give for each update. It just made more sense to put it all out at once to allow people to read the whole thing. I always hated cliff-hangers. Hopefully you'll think better of this update.**

 **See you next time. Thanks for reading.**


	6. Chapter V - On the Trail

**The Keys of Khagemar**

 **Chapter 5 – On the Trail**

Hush had never visited Shor's Stone before. It wasn't due to any particular aversion to the settlement; he'd simply never been inclined to go. The nature of his work meant he was always travelling, always answering the summons of Jarls and picking up contracts or bounties from whoever required his unique services.

As such, Shor's Stone had never been very high on his list of priorities, as large cities like Solitude, Markarth and Whiterun were far more likely to assign him something. But Shor's Stone was hardly even what Hush would call as a settlement. It was _barely_ a village. Three houses, one with a smithy attached to it sat around the entrance to a mine. If someone was hiding here, especially with a secret as huge as being an Oathkeeper, he doubted he would have to look for long.

He didn't want to linger. The Garkains could be just a few hours behind him, he didn't want to chance setting up camp until he absolutely had to. And unfortunately for Hush, there was neither a local trader to resupply on arrows and other provisions, nor a tavern to have a drink after walking East from the Garkains fort near Ivarstead to this sorry excuse for a settlement.

It was quiet, if nothing else, Hush supposed. That was always a nice thing.

 _"Get away from me! To Oblivion with you all!"_

Maybe not.

"I'm leaving and you can't stop me, so just let me go!"

A woman's erratic shrieking carried across to Hush on the wind, and he sighed. Truly, there was never a dull moment in his life these days. He looked over to the smithy just in time to see the front door slam shut, with whoever had been shouting, fuming within. A few Rift Guards stood around the house; their gazes fixed squarely on the door. As such, when Hush approached one of the men, the Rift Guard almost jumped out of his skin when the mercenary tapped him on the shoulder.

"Gods, don't scare a man like that, Khajiit." He implored once he'd regained his composure. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Hush allowed a small smirk to tug at his lips, but cast a glance at the smithy. "Just a traveller. This one was wondering who was making so much noise."

"You're not the only one." He replied, calling another Guard over with a wave of his hand. "Talk to the Captain if you really want to know, just stay out of trouble while you're here."

"This one can make no such promises, but he will try." Hush replied with a nod.

"Good." He sniffed, just as the other man approached the pair: the Captain, Hush guessed.

"What is it?" He asked in a bored tone, giving Hush a long suspicious look. "Who's the kitten?"

Hush chuckled, that was a new one, but he liked it. Hush - the Lightning Arrow, a Monster Hunter... the _Kitten_. He was actually fond of the sound of it.

"Some traveller wants to know what's going on." He shrugged. "I don't care; he's your problem now, sir."

The Captain sighed. "Fine. You're dismissed; go make sure she doesn't slip out the back."

"Aye." He replied, walking away at a brisk pace around the other side of the small hut.

"So what do you want?" The Captain asked Hush, arms folded.

"Like he said, Khajiit is merely curious. Since when do Guards make sure someone doesn't leave their own home, hm?" He asked, casting glances to the small home. It seemed cosy enough, but the forge in the smithy was extinguished, and Hush frowned. What kind of blacksmith would let his forge go cold?

"This is official business, you know. You're poking your nose where it doesn't belong. Shouldn't you be guarding a Khajiit caravan of some kind?" The Captain said, gesturing to his damaged leather armour. Hush knew he'd have to get it fixed soon. The fighting at the Garkain fort had really done a number on him.

"This one looks like a caravan guard to you?" Hush asked, incredulous. The most they would have to deal with would be a group of Bandits or some hungry wildlife like Bears or Sabre Cats.

"You _look_ like trouble." He spat.

"Dead wrong. Khajiit makes trouble go away." Hush rebuked, a swell of annoyance welling up inside him. "This one is a mercenary, a good one too."

"This is a quiet little place; we don't need the likes of you stirring things up for us. But..." The Captain said, stroking his bushy beard with a hand as if in thought. "Look, there's been a rise in criminal activities recently in Riften, and I can't spare the men to keep this place secure. It's a waste of time, frankly."

Hush nodded. He absorbed the information as he listened, perhaps the Captain would accidentally slip some details to the Khajiit that he could use. The sooner he found the Oathkeeper, the better.

"But if _someone_ were to solve this problem, I'd be able to redeploy my men where I need them. Of course, I couldn't _officially_ hire a mercenary. But if someone were to investigate and get me enough information for a report, I'm sure I could 'accidentally' let a few supplies go missing as payment." The Captain stipulated, his gaze fixed on Hush the entire time.

The Khajiit grimaced, he really didn't have time for this, but he was running low on arrows and his weapons could certainly do with repairs too. Eventually, he nodded.

"This one will try to solve your problem. Can you tell Khajiit about what is wrong?"

"Not officially. But there's nothing stopping me from giving my men a five minute break. Anything could happen while we're away." The Captain smiled devilishly, and Hush nodded again in understanding.

 _Get inside and talk to the woman_. _Find a way to solve her problem, then uncover a clue about the Oathkeeper._

"This one will wait for the right moment." Hush agreed, and the Captain beamed.

"Thank you. Good luck." He added before turning away and calling to his men, ordering them to rest their feet for a few minutes.

Once they had turned away, Hush darted to the smithy. He rapped his knuckles on the door, and a voice called out.

"What in Oblivion do you want now?!" Someone yelled, footsteps stomping towards the door from inside. "If you'd just let me leave, I could-"

The door swung open and Hush was greeted by the sight of a fuming Wood Elf. Her skin was tan, but she was slightly red in the face from yelling so much, and her eyes were sunken and her face was gaunt – probably from not sleeping or eating. Hush wondered why. What really grabbed his attention though, were her eyes - deep green and flashing with anger, but they instantly softened at the sight of him.

"Gods. Is that you, Hush?" She whispered in surprise and astonishment. "It's been _years_."

It took the Khajiit a moment to recognise her, but he remembered who she was after a moment of searching his memory.

"Greetings, Elicia. This one hears you need help."

She snapped out of her daze, then nodded, practically dragging him inside her home. It smelled of lavender and pine cones, and he could faintly make out the remnants of last night's dinner.

"Yes, I do. It's Derrimus, you see." She began, her voice already wavering with emotion.

"What about him? Is he alright?"

"I don't know. He's been missing for days. I think he's been taken."

 **VIIIIIV**

A deep orange tinge covered the landscape below. The dying light of the sun drenched the area around with a warm spectrum of colour. Orange-reddish clouds floated across the setting sun, sitting high above the brown and muddy land. In the distance, the decrepit ruins of an Ancient Nordic burial ground stood out like a sore thumb, the ugly grey stone clashing with the warm springtime sunset.

A glimpse of the unfettered beauty that Skyrim could often present from out of nowhere, as if to remind denizens that perhaps life wasn't so bad in the province. One might have even called it a beautiful sight, if one had an eye for aesthetic appeal.

But Luther wasn't interested in the setting of the sun, or the encroaching darkness of the coming night. He was on a mission of his own; it wouldn't do well to let his mind wander.

Luther had smelled it just over an hour ago, a familiar scent that had bloomed old memories into the forefront of his mind. He remembered things that he had not thought about in decades, if not longer. Now, he wanted only to confirm his suspicions, to make contact with the source of the smell. As he rounded the last of the trees, Luther allowed a thin smile to grow on his pale lips.

Another vampire.

"Hello, old friend." He greeted.

The other man sat on the overhang of a cliff, a leg dangling off the edge, apparently oblivious to the sheer drop. His entirely black armour made him obvious from the ground he sat upon. As Luther stood there, he could see an Ebony sword sitting close by, propped on a rocky outcrop, within easy reach if required.

The man wore no helmet, and Luther could therefore see it was him, a grotesque scar running from his jaw to his ear, the pink skin angry and bright against his paler natural tone.

Luther walked a few paces closer, no more than fifteen feet away from him when the scarred man slowly turned his head to regard Luther. For a long moment, nothing was said. His vampiric orange eyes only stared, studied him for signs of danger or a need to bear arms against the vampire. When he found none, he spoke.

"What do you want, Luther?" Corinnor asked in a flat tone. Luther narrowed his eyes slightly. Rather than replying, he removed his hood and stared coldly at the other vampire. Again, Corinnor scanned his features.

"How did you know it was me?" Luther asked. His body language became slightly more defensive, and his lip twitched.

"How couldn't I? I'd know your smell anywhere, Luther. You're not an easy one to forget." Luther remained impassive, and said nothing in reply, knowing what he said was true. After a moment, Corinnor sighed. "What do you want? Have I done something wrong?" He mocked, a thin smile lacking any kindness curling the edges of his lips.

"You know better than I that we've both done truly unforgivable things in our time, but I'm not here to dredge up sordid memories." Luther paused. "I need your help."

At this, Corinnor stood, striding over to Luther with a mix of anger and fear. "Why would I help you? You don't know me anymore, Luther. A lot's changed, and I _certainly_ don't know you these days." He hissed. "I thought I did, once..."

He seemed to put a mocking emphasis on his name, as if the sound of it left a bad taste in his mouth. Luther did not react though. He simply sniffed and fought the urge to bite back at Corinnor's comments.

"You left us, Luther! You abandoned everything we stood for, because you grew a _conscience_? Because you swore off drinking blood?"

Luther allowed the younger vampire a moment to vent his frustrations, but his gaze never wavered. Luther wasn't one to back down from any confrontation.

"Don't raise your voice to me." Luther warned. "You know I have my reasons. Joining the Garkains was a critical error on my part, and it was a mistake I am trying to atone for - I urge you to do the same, my friend."

Corinnor's eyes flashed with anger, but he bit back his comments, instead taking a moment to regain his composure. "You left because, _what_ , a cult of vampires wasn't _ethical_ , is that it? Need I remind you that we need to drink blood to survive! We're monsters."

"But we shouldn't have to be."

Corinnor didn't reply to that. Instead, his anger dissipated and he sighed heavily. Luther kept his eyes on the younger vampire, but still said nothing yet, letting his words hang in the air for a few moments.

"Just tell me what you want, Luther. It will be a waste of both our time if you're only here to debate." Corinnor said as his face set into an annoyed, stoic expression.

"You know why." Luther replied, his tone even, almost lacking any emotion at all, except maybe pity.

"You're here to tell me that the Garkains are evil? Again?" Corinnor asked, incredulous and exasperated.

Luther nodded, and Corinnor sighed, waiting for his coming lecture.

"You know as well as I do that they're completely insane. They want to release a vampire whose power amounts to that of the Old Gods themselves. What do you really think will happen if they achieve that goal?"

"It's not a matter of ' _if'_ , Luther, only ' _when'_." Corinnor corrected. "The Prophet herself has promised an age of dominion for all of vampire kind. Finally, we will be the dominant race of Nirn, and all of Tamriel will bow before us, or we will bathe in the blood of its children." Corinnor recited, the statement was practically the mantra of the Garkain cult at this point.

"And what then, hmm?" Luther asked. "What will happen after Khagemar grows tired of domination over the mortals? Once he gets bored of massacring easy prey and weary from the blood he has spilled, tell me what he will do."

Corinnor looked incredulous. "Who am I to know his intentions for the world? I am but a humble-"

" _He'll slaughter you all like animals."_ Luther muttered, anger trembling in his voice. "He is not a benevolent god, and I doubt he will be satisfied with hunting mortals for the rest of eternity, do you? Doubtless, he will be more than happy to kill and murder innocents for centuries, but not forever. Who do you think he will hunt after that? Anyone with enough to power to challenge him, he will wipe out with a flick of his wrist."

Corinnor looked slightly alarmed, but his face never betrayed the fear that Luther's words put into him.

"He'll kill you, and me. He won't need an army if there is no one left to conquer and kill. He will not distinguish between vampires and men – they will mean nothing to him. They will all be worth less than the dirt on his boot. _Everyone_ will die." Luther surmised, revealing the truth to his old friend.

"You don't know that." Corinnor replied, but his words sounded small, and he was unsure of the truth even as he said it.

"Mark my words, absolute power corrupts absolutely." Luther spat, his anger barely contained at this point. "Just look at the mortals and their Empire in Cyrodiil. How many times have they fought wars initiated by the anger of a flawed and power-hungry Emperor? How many times has their Empire fallen into ruins because of the whims of a madman with an appetite for domination and expansion, only to crumble into nothing – again and again? It's a _cycle_ , a never-ending wheel of misplaced power, unending ambition and inevitable destruction."

"But we're not just men any more. We're better; we won't make the same mistakes as they do." Corinnor desperately countered.

"Won't we? How _truly different_ are we to them, Corinnor? They crave power, as do we. Their lives are spent on collecting wealth and knowledge, and finding love." Luther said, allowing the words to hang in the air for a moment. "If you don't want to help me fight back against them; fine. That's something I can accept, you never were a fighter after all. But you're better than _this_ , better than them. You were a good man, Corinnor. I know you still are, you're just lost."

"You're wrong about me."

Luther's eyes creased, and his anger turned to sadness. His flare of fury died inside of him as he looked at the man he had once called friend.

"If you truly believe that; then you are already too far gone for me to help you."

Corinnor averted his eyes from Luther's piercing gaze. He could hardly bare to look at the older vampire. He could hardly speak to deny Luther's words again.

"You should go, Luther." He whispered, his eyes never meeting Luther's.

"Corin..." He placed a hand on the younger vampires shoulder, squeezing it in an affectionate way. But Corinnor leapt back, anger flashing in his watery eyes, but the fury melted away at the sorrow on Luther's face.

" _Just go."_ Corinnor told him. "Forget about me. Please."

Luther said nothing, but shook his head and sighed as he turned and walked away, sadness tugging at his ancient heart. He was about to turn into his mist form when he said one last thing.

"Prophecy tells what _may be_ , not what _should be_. Don't take her word as the truth; as it is only her perverted version of it. Do not follow her, and do not follow me - go your own way."

Before the younger vampire could answer, Luther dissipated into red-black smoke and flew away into the night.

 **VIIIIIV**

A few miles outside of Shor's Stone, after leaving Elicia with promises of getting her husband back, Hush walked through the forest north-east of the settlement towards where Derrimus was taken. He wanted to retrace what had happened, to be there in the same place and at the same time that Elicia told Hush he'd been hunting.

There was a crisp chill in the air. The beginning of dusk had dropped the temperature by a quick twenty degrees, but Hush hardly felt it. He was on the hunt. The chill, along with the fresh spring colours in the aspen that veined through the dark timber, seemed to heighten his senses. Sounds seemed crisper, his vision extended. Even the dry, sharp smell of the sage seemed to have more of a bite. Maybe it was because just prior to the darkness the wind usually stopped, and it was the stillness that brought everything out.

Hush placed himself right square in the middle of it, using himself as bait. He knew Elicia wouldn't approve, but this was possibly his friend's life on the line.

The grass around the scene of the kidnapping was still flattened by the guards who had been there, so it was easy to find. Hush stopped and looked around, hoping to spot something that the other men had missed. He crouched down to the ground and sniffed deeply, drinking in the literal cornucopia of smalls – wildlife scat, blood, a dozen different kinds of animals and anything else that clung to the ground.

He turned and faced east, studying the shadowed treeline above him, wondering what it was that had caused Derrimus to go missing. He knew the Imperial wouldn't let his wife worry unnecessarily, so something had happened to him – it was just a question of what or who had done it.

He walked slowly and stopped very often, as if he were hunting elk, he moved up the sloping ground. Hush had learned over the years that moving too quickly dulled too many senses in the wilderness. If his breathing became too laboured, all he could hear was himself. By walking a hundred yards and then stopping, he could hear more, see more. As the light filtered, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The sky was a brilliant dark blue and close with swirls of stars. A quarter moon turned the grass sagebrush a dark hue.

For the best part of an hour, Hush moved slowly up the side of a mountain until the first few of the trees were behind him and the forest loomed in front. He came upon a cave; the ground at its mouth was a palette of red and brown from where fresh blood had been spilled. He peered into the darkness of the cave, but the shadows were so pitch black, it could have been home to a Daedric Prince.

Then Hush felt something watching him from within the cave.

It wasn't so much that he could see something in the pitch black darkness as sense it. There was a hint, a barely perceptible hint, of dread beginning to build in the pit of his stomach. He took a step towards the cave, the hair on the back of his neck was raised, and he sniffed the air. But he couldn't smell anything unusual about this place – only blood, lots of it. Hush slowly took an arrow from his quiver and placed on the neck of his bow, but his movements felt gradual, as if the air around him was made of tar. His eyes were wild and his ears were up and alert, but he couldn't sense anything.

Suddenly, the darkness exploded with purpose, and instinct took over as Hush rolled left, missing the gnashing jaws of a wolf by millimetres. He used his momentum and rolled into a combat stance, locked his eyes onto the animal and let his arrow fly.

It buried itself into the flank of the wolf with cruel purpose, and the wolf barked in pain and surprise, then lay on the ground, unable to move. Hush exhaled deeply, and strode over to the wolf, which was panting heavily, its eyes manic and scared. Hush took pity on the wolf and slid his dagger into its heart, putting the animal out of its misery.

The Khajiit stood from the carcass and proceeded to the mouth of the cave, it still remained pitch black, but Hush was not afraid. His 'Night Eye' quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he delved inside. There was blood, and a smell that made him almost gag. He soon found the source of both when he stumbled upon the body of a middle-aged Dark Elf.

He crouched low to the cold body and examined the corpse, clearly the victim of an animal attack, a large one too. His right leg was entirely missing, but the blood suggested it had been done before death. The torso was torn apart, and Hush could see his innards had been splayed all around him, this too had been done before death, he noticed. The face remained mostly intact, except for a few bite marks that Hush suspected were from the wolf he'd just put down. But that wolf had only been a scavenger; it wasn't nearly strong enough to tear off limbs or slash apart a belly as brutally as this.

Perhaps it was a bear of some kind? Hush knew from previous experience that they could inflict massive damage before killing their prey, they enjoyed making their victims suffer – but they always consumed their kill after making it, and this Elf clearly hadn't been eaten, at least, not to the extent a bear would consume him. They would tear and rend from the bone, always. This certainly didn't match any bodies that Hush had known to be mauled and eaten by bears.

It _had_ to be something else, some kind of animal only interested in the kill, and not consumption.

The Khajiit looked around the body, hoping to find possessions of some kind. He didn't want to haul an entire corpse back to civilisation, but if he could find some belongings, he could present them to the Jarl and ask them to notify the family of the deceased and organise collection of the body.

His eyes found a knapsack, the straps torn and the cloth crusted with dried blood. He pried open the lid and looked within. Strange. It didn't contain any camping supplies or things that any traveller would need on their journey. But it _did_ contain a small bundle of Hawk Feathers, and a book about the Effects of Lycanthropy.

It didn't make any sense.

Hush looked over to his left and noticed something towards the back of the cave, something shining from beneath a kicked up patch of dirt. He left the knapsack and walked over to investigate. He brushed the dirt away and discovered a sword, gleaming, despite the lack of light. To be here though, it must have been knocked out of the Elf's grasp by something and flung to where he couldn't reclaim it, leaving him open to attack.

Hush picked it up and examined the weapon further. Something was off about it. Something seemed wrong. The craftsmanship was simple and practical, a lot like one made of iron would appear, but the cross-guard was longer, almost the same length of the grip on either side.

Hush sniffed the metal, but it didn't smell like any usual weapon he'd come across. It stank of blood, but not of men or elves. No, there was certainly something different about it, and so very wrong. Then it clicked in his mind, and suddenly everything made sense.

It was made of silver.

A Silver Sword. A book about Lycanthropy. Hawk Feathers.

The Dark Elf was a member of the Silver Hand. Werewolf hunters. Hush had come across them before, but he'd never liked them. Whereas he hunted monsters as a profession, and did it in a disciplined and strictly regimented method, the Silver Hand were no better than Bandits. They made monsters suffer and inflicted brutal tortures on any that they came across, but they targeted werewolves first and foremost. Their capacity for cruelty knew no limits.

Suddenly, Hush realised that if there was a Werewolf prowling around Shor's Stone, there wasn't much chance that Derrimus was still alive. He wondered what he'd have to tell Elicia, how he'd break the news that her husband had been gutted and ripped apart by a monster masquerading as a man.

He sighed and turned around to leave, and his senses were suddenly assaulted by another new smell as the wind changed directions. But this one wasn't one he was unfamiliar with, he knew this smell. Something stank of sweat and anger, of alcohol and cruelty.

Bandits.

Or more likely, the Silver Hand, here to reclaim the corpse of their fallen comrade.

Hush exited the cave with his hands in the air, knowing they would have seen him enter a few minutes ago. His eyes scanned the bushes and tall grass nearby; in this darkness they could be hiding anywhere.

"Come out." He called. "This one means you no harm. Khajiit has questions, he needs answers."

The silence that followed was almost painful, but Hush never doubted himself for a moment. He knew that they were there; they had simply chosen to not reveal themselves. Almost a full minute had gone by before the undergrowth moved, and a figure moved towards him, a savage grin on his smug face.

"Well, look 'ere, lads." He snorted. "Seems we caught ourselves a brave kitty-cat."

Hush growled in anger. Gods, he hated men like these - ignorant, stupid and racist. Unfortunately, that description seemed to match most of Skyrim these days.

"What's wrong, cat? You lost?" Another voice spoke, this one was somewhere off to his right.

"No." Hush responded plainly, trying not to let his annoyance show itself in his tone. "This one is searching for a missing person. Maybe you have seen him?"

"Don't see much but trees around 'ere." The first man replied, his tone light and mocking. "Who are you looking for? A lady Sabre Cat to spend the night with?"

At least a dozen voices chuckled at Hush's expense. He cursed inwardly, if this got violent, he knew he wouldn't stand much of a chance against so many.

"No. Khajiit is looking for an Imperial man, he was out hunting. His wife asked me to look for him." Hush looked square at the two men, wary to keep his voice measured and calm. "His name is Derrimus; he is blind in one eye. Do you remember seeing anyone-"

The words died in his throat as the laughter stopped at the physical description of his old friend. The first man spoke, but this time his voice was hard and his expression was stony and irritated.

"No, we haven't. Ain't seen anyone who fits that description."

Hush's ears went flat against his head; something was off about these men. They were hiding something. And Hush had feeling they knew _exactly_ what had happened to Derrimus.

"Khajiit thinks you're lying to him." Hush spat.

"And I think you should stop talking and be on your way - before this gets ugly." He retorted.

"This one isn't going anywhere. Not until he knows the truth."

There was a long moment of silence, a moment in which all other members of the Silver Hand chose to reveal themselves and crowd around the two other Silver Hand members in an attempt to intimidate Hush.

Thirteen in all. Hush didn't stand a chance.

He knew it, and so did they.

"Last chance..." The first man said as he drew his sword, and all other Silver Hand followed his lead, their own weapons soon in hand. _"Walk. Away."_

There a palpable moment of unease, a moment so full of tension and a threat for violence that Hush could have cut it with a knife. In the end, the Khajiit shook his head, and hurled a pair of throwing knives at the closest members of the Silver Hand. The blades embedded into their necks with wet _'thunks'_ , and they fell to the ground, clutching at their throats and gasping for air.

The rest of them were momentarily shocked, and Hush used the moment to draw his sword and dagger in each hand to slice another man to the ground. He screamed in pain as Hush lunged for the next opponent, an Orc, easily an entire foot taller than he was. He slashed his dagger across his belly, and his intestines spilled to the ground as the green-skinned brute keeled over, bellowing in agony and shock.

By now, the others had gotten their bearings and launched themselves at Hush as the Orc finally expired and fell to the ground. The Khajiit rolled right and shoulder-barged another man, causing him to fall onto his back. Hush used his own momentum to carry above the fallen man and shove his sword into his chest, piercing his heart.

 _Five down_.

He knew he wouldn't win, but he wasn't going to make it easy for them either.

"He's a fighter, lads. And a quick one, too." Their leader, the first man to reveal himself bellowed. "Circle 'round him!"

Hush's sword sang as the metal clashed with another blade, but he used the dagger in his free hand to stab his opponent in the armpit, the blade sank up to the hilt and the man cried out in pain as he recoiled, giving Hush and opening to finish him off with a slash across his throat. Hush grimaced as his hot blood spurted onto his face and chest.

He knew the others would be having second thoughts now. Half of the battle when facing off against a group of adversary's was showing your opponents that you weren't afraid of them, and that you were more than capable of killing them with ease. And Hush was very good at showing that, even though his arms were screaming with fatigue and his breath came quick and shallow, making him light-headed. He couldn't keep up this facade for long.

"He's fast!" One of them cried.

"Like lightning!" Another agreed. "How are we supposed to fight _lightning_?"

Hush offered them a manic grin, baring his teeth at them. In his mind, he realised he must've looked quite a sight, covered in blood and grinning like a madman. Anyone would be at least a little scared of that.

"Stop going for him one at a time!" Someone commanded. "He can't fight you all at once!"

This was what Hush had been dreading, a joined attack that he couldn't fend off. Maybe today was the day he died, but he hoped not. He still had so much to do.

Saving the world from Khagemar was just one of those things.

Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard a roar of anger. But he couldn't turn in time and he was knocked off-balance and he fell to the ground as a blow connected with his face, breaking his nose. As fresh blood spurted out of his nostrils, he hit the ground and knew his fate was sealed.

 _That's the one thing you never do in a fight,_ he thought, _never go down. I've already lost._

"Get him!" Someone cried.

And just like that, Hush felt half a dozen feet kicking him as hard as they could. Instinctively, he curled up into a ball, trying to protect himself, but it was pointless. The kicks thundered against his back and arms, and he knew something would be broken when it all ended – _if_ it ended.

He wouldn't scream though. He refused to give them the satisfaction. If anything, he refusal to let them know how much it hurt made them hit even harder. He felt sick, and he could see the edges of his vision going black. Maybe this was how it all ended. Maybe this really was how he died.

'Kicked to death by bandits' - what an obituary _that_ would make for.

"Stop. Don't kill him." A voice commanded, and Hush knew it would be the first man. "Why should we do all the work?"

Instantly, the kicking stopped, and Hush's body throbbed with pain. He could feel his heart beat in his veins, and every pulse was a fresh wave of nausea and aching. He coughed, and spat blood. His breath was laboured and his vision blurred whenever he tried to focus. All he could taste was his own blood. Bitter, like iron.

"What should do with him, boss?" One of them asked. "He killed Alande."

"I know." He replied, but to Hush it sounded as if he were speaking through a pane of glass. "But I also know that the Ferati Ring has been low on fighting talent. Let's bring him there. Who knows how long he'll last – he's pretty good, after all."

"Good idea, boss." One of them laughed.

"I reckon he could even beat one of the champions, how about that?" Someone else pitched in.

"He might, or he might not." The leader crouched down next to Hush, so the Khajiit could see the cruel curl of his lips. "Either way, he's going to make all of us _very_ rich indeed."

Then someone struck his temple with the butt of their weapon, and his world crashed into darkness.


End file.
